


Between Then and Now

by EmmG



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 98,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmG/pseuds/EmmG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't how they should have been reunited. Not with blood in her mouth and the key to her freedom in his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Silence

It happens in silence; nothing heralds it.

Their armies don't bleed. They are not forced into a final confrontation as dramatization would demand it. Perhaps history will remember it differently.

She expected a grandiose display, but as the sky burns the sight proves oddly beautiful for a blissful moment before the chaos swallows them whole.

"We can't protect them all," says Dorian.

"I know," she agrees with gripping resolution and helps him maintain a barrier over whatever little they can salvage, over the very few souls they can grant temporary safety to.

The world is a flip book. Colors succeed one another, still images animated in between heartbeats and her blinking eyes. Falling, crashing, fracturing all around them. She is drained and she is tired from fighting what has come to pass despite all their sacrifices, by the time her strength fails her.

He is nothing if not desperate when he does appear, and for an instant she thinks him to be a demon. Or, at the very least, an illusion. He is bloody and battered, shuddering as he rips through their defenses with unprecedented fury. The raw edge of it knocks her down.

They opposed him at every turn. Destroyed everything they could lay their paws on that could aid him. And now, at the end, his composure is wholly shattered and his face bare to her.

He is made to acknowledge them as equals, at long last.

He is ancient, but he bleeds. He's had centuries to gather his power, in secrecy and silence, while they amassed scraps with time breathing down their necks. But it's enough, somehow it's enough, and he is terrified.

Solas slaps the staff out of her hand with such violence that she feels the bones in her wrist succumb.

"You would lay waste to it all," he rasps as he grips her, silences her magic, and presses her to his chest. "It would all have been in vain."

Says, "But you will live well," as he drags her toward an eluvian.

A twisted echo of the past.

Says, "I cannot hurt that which I love," as he activates the ancient mirror.

A bitter lie.

She hears Dorian, his voice breaking as he calls out to her. But he's unable to divert his attention from the barrier, can't sacrifice so much for a gamble. Sees Vivienne as she, injured and limping yet ever proud, steps in to assist him, claiming the forcefully vacated spot.

Solas is on the precipice, utterly undone. This is a last-ditch effort to protect his precious new world. The Inquisition, even disbanded, proved a formidable adversary and now he is faced with an enemy he thought would destroy itself from within long before his folly came to fruition.

"You are a thorn in my side," he whispers into her shoulder later on after her hair has been combed and the blood washed out. "A lovely, most beloved thorn."

And she cries in rage, because this room is beautiful and his gifts are thoughtful, but he has made her a prisoner, knowing her to be a valuable bargaining chip. Both sides have been reduced to crawling after clashing together, battling for dominance, and while she is his, he is on top once again.

"Look how low you've been brought by those who were never real enough for you," she snarls. "Where is your pride now?"

He tries to caress her cheeks, to take her face between his calloused palms, but she bites his hand and spits the blood back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When will the the government stop my sinful hand. I need to stop writing new stuff and remember I actually have a historiography to finish.
> 
> I also remembered that I'm a 21 year old who has a gaming PC that cost her an arm and a leg and I can use it to write. So yeah.


	2. Another Puppet

When he moves to take the communication crystal given to her by Dorian, they end up fighting.

It's an ugly, dirty scuffle with him holding back and her resorting to clawing his eyes out. Juvenile tactic, but her power is nullified and she has nothing else at her disposal. She even manages to get her thumb near his socket before she is thrown back. His hand reaches behind her head just in time to cushion the blow; otherwise, she would have undoubtedly cracked her skull against the wall.

"I am sorry," he says. "I am so sorry, ma vhenan."

Even with the pained expression on his face, sincere in its agony, he succeeds in twisting the endearment into something utterly repulsive.

"Unlock the door," she says.

His hands fidget. "In time."

She slaps him, nails raking across his skin. He's grown so pale, too thin, but so has she. "How can you do this to me?" she demands.

"I will show you nothing but kindness," he says, catching her wrist before another blow comes. "I never wanted it to come to this."

But they made him desperate. They forced him to play a card he wouldn't have otherwise considered. It's a little victory, despite tasting like ash in her mouth. Even if it cost her everything a second time.

"Unlock the door," she repeats.

"No," he says.

"I will go mad," she promises.

He kisses the inside of her wrist. "Then we shall do so together."

But he's had a head start. He already is a little mad from all the miscalculations; from his failed attempt at recreating an exact replica of his world despite the Veil being down; from being made to fear an organization that would seek a semblance of equality rather than bow to the supremacy of his People.

Something twitches inside her chest. Something she wishes she could have smothered in its infancy and never allowed to bloom. There must be no softness.

"You are not a god," she says, suddenly sounding oddly mild.

"I never claimed to be," Solas says.

"Dorian will slit your throat when this is over." If my hand trembles too much to bury a dagger in your back, is what she keeps to herself.

His head inclines in the mockery of a bow. "I humbly await him."

The Inquisition will march on him - same if not in name then in people - and his darling Arlathan, and he'll dangle their leader in front of their eyes to still their blades while he strikes from the shadows.

He wants to hold her very badly, she can tell. His loneliness is a palpable thing around them, but he settles on rubbing slow circles over her skin with his finger. The stolen indulgence appeases him and enrages her.

"Please, vhenan," he says, voice hitching, "be my guest—"

"And not your prisoner?" she finishes for him with unconcealed spite.

He falls silent and she knows her words to be true.


	3. Little Threats

It's not an act of desperation.

If anything, it is fueled by cold logic.

Dorian is a creature of loyalty; it will ruin him. He will bite and shred and threaten. He will slaughter and resort to bleeding others dry for information. It will blind him. He is the de facto second leader of their merry little band, has always been in her absence. Others will follow him into the trap without second thought.

She can't allow him to sacrifice reason. Not after how strong they've become. He will not undo it all out of loyalty and love.

They've promised each other that if either ended up being taken prisoner—but Dorian would break that oath in a heartbeat.

So she attacks the bed frame.

Whatever little remains of her power goes toward freezing the lock on the door.

The sufficiently sharp piece of wood broken off the bed frame is wedged between her knees. She drags her wrist across it, first hesitantly, testing the waters, and then with renewed ardor. It's dull compared to a knife, but then again she has no knife. No mirror. Nothing sharp.

Not even her prosthetic arm.

It's a brutish effort and tears stream down her face, but eventually she manages to cut deep enough for blood to spill freely.

And reclines back to admire the ceiling.

Dorian will sense it. He will be furious. Devastated. But he won't storm Solas' stronghold—if he manages to find it—armed with anger and a desire to get her back. He will sit back and plot. He is so awfully good at that.

She is done being selfish.

At some point, her breathing grows shallow. She doesn't feel cold or exhausted, doesn't drown in regret; instead a profound apathy fills her. The ceiling becomes very interesting, it is all she can look at while bleeding out through her wrist.

_Drip drip drip_

There is a small pool of blood by the bed. If she wanted, she could dip her toes into it and use it as paint.

Someone fiddles with the door handle. Gasps upon feeling the cold. She can still sustain the spell, mundane as it is. The door won't open unless broken in.

Footsteps hurry away.

Unfamiliar elvhen words. Hushed whispers. The handle shatters, slivers of ice flying off in all directions, and then trembling hands are pulling her upright.

His voice is in her ear and his lips on the corner of her mouth while healing magic spreads through her veins. She tries fighting, tries reaching for the piece of wood to undo the repairs to her skin, but his fingers have coiled around her wrist.

Solas is all but on top of her, his body pressing hers into the mattress

"Is your disgust for me so great that you wouldn't even live?" he asks. It comes out as a scream. The next words are coated in acid. "Not even for your _Inquisition_?"

No, she rather enjoys living, actually. This is the strategy of one backed into a corner.

"Not everything is about you.” She manages to kick him; he is unfazed.

He trails kisses up and down her jaw, over her eyelids, and over her mouth. Never truly parting it, just lips brushing over lips, an ephemeral contact for he knows she wouldn't allow him more. And when he does pull away, she feels a thrumming heaviness in her head.

Solas stays until she can no longer fight the spell and falls asleep.

When she wakes up, it could be either morning or night.

There is no window.

But there, wrapped like a precious gift, is her prosthetic arm. And when she goes to push the door, it is unlocked.

Ellana storms out with the kind of resolution one shouldn't possess in an unfamiliar place. Not three steps past the doorway, she runs into Abelas who bows, who actually bows to her.

His mouth opens.

So does hers. It is quicker. "Shut it," she says. "I don't want to hear it."

His mouth closes. He looks confused.

Good.


	4. An Understanding

Abelas attempts to give her a tour of the place.

It doesn't end well.

For one, she shuts out his voice and makes her own way, always looking for staircases, always going up up, up. If there's a tower, she will break the window when no one is looking and scale the wall. It's a decision made on the spot. Of course, she must find one first.

He promptly ignores her when she kindly extends the offer to fuck off.

For two, when he puts his hand on her shoulder, in a sugary-sweet attempt to steer her away, she twirls on her heels and punches him in the jaw. The prosthetic arm, courtesy of Dagna, is a beast of dawnstone and enchanted wood. It tears through his skin and he ends up bleeding. It's even more beautiful to watch him stumble and seek support from a nearby wall.

"I can appreciate a strength of character," he says, rubbing the sore spot with his knuckles.

She is sorely tempted to tear his tongue out.

He dispenses with false courtesies after this. The improvised bow never returns. It's better this way.

Abelas has two emotions: outright disgust and a passive-aggressive stance. He doesn't hold back and showers her with both. His voice is a pestering fly at her ear and when Ellana goes in for a second blow, he catches her wrist, spins her around, and pushes her away. This time, she's the one staggering as he looks on.

"Go away," she says. He is more than annoying.

"Believe me, I have no wish to stay," he counters.

"What a perfect world. Our desires coincide."

"Fen'Harel instructed me to show you around."

Ellana rolls her eyes. "Oh, so he's openly Fen'Harel now. All right, all right, go tell _Fen'Harel_ I can walk on my own and need no escort."

"It's not about what you want."

"Fuck you, Abelas."

She's acting very much the child and she knows it, but deprived of everything that makes her powerful, Ellana decides she doesn't truly care.

This hostility is new, as well. Even back at Mythal's temple, she'd looked upon him with a certain kind of reverence. He was a figure from another age, a bearer of knowledge lost to the years, and though his dislike of her kind was evident, he was still formidable. But now he is no more than Solas' dog—and it angers her beyond belief.

That someone who lived through the fall of an empire decided to aid in the annihilation of another, is repulsing to her. He should know better. Solas spent millennia in uthenera and so his grief remained fresh upon waking, but not he. Abelas woke time and again; he had time to glimpse the beauty of her world, a world he admitted to be the successor to the dynasty his kind ruined. He has no excuse.

Still, she only resents Abelas whereas she loathes Solas—which makes him preferable company, if there is to be company at all which, right now, seems inescapable. So when she sees the latter, staring at the two of them from across the corridor, judging whether to approach or not, she extends her foot to trip the Sentinel. That gets his attention.

His eyes scream murder. He rearranges his hood.

"What's over there?" she asks, nodding toward a dimly lit hallway.

"The library," he replies through gritted teeth.

Solas comes in a little closer, one arm crossed at the elbow, the elongated sleeve of his regal robes swishing through the air in time with his steps. How quickly his mannerisms changed, going from unassuming to oozing grace.

"I want to see it," Ellana demands and sets off, forcing him to follow.

A few twists and turns, and they're effectively out of Solas' range. She goes back to ignoring him.

"Fen'Harel is being a gracious host. You repay his generosity poorly," Abelas says. He's by her side now, his gait long and elegant, yet somehow matching her hurried one. "You cannot avoid him forever."

Good little dog, taught never to utter the word 'warden.'

"Watch me," she replies with a more than generous handful of defiance in her tone.

"You are ungrateful."

Ellana stops dead in her tracks. His shoulder brushes against her own, his brow arches, and then she has her elbow against his throat as she slams her entire body weight against him. Abelas' head hits the wall with a glorious _crack_ as she compresses his windpipe, standing on tiptoe to level her gaze with his.

Her voice has never been this low; gravelly as though from misuse though it is anger that colors it. "This is my world," she hisses. "My world that he destroyed. My friends that he killed. It was mine, never his, and he took it all away. He had no right to play god and start a war he doesn't know how to finish; kill hundreds of thousands of innocents in the honor of a memory. I spit on your Elvhen Glory, and if you believe me a fool for mourning the loss of my reality then you are one too—as well as cruel."

Abelas' eyes shift downward and no further accusations fly out. He does not follow her into the library.

A silent kind of understanding passes between them.

It's a small blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished my historiography. I can do whatever I want, post as much as I want. Don't judge me.


	5. Good

The library becomes a quiet haven.

Solas leaves her alone, as do his People. None are hostile, and only rarely a random soul is curious enough to talk to her. They are mostly interested in her arm, or lack thereof. She usually dismisses them rather quickly, unable to stomach their hopeful faces. She knows she shouldn't judge them for their convictions—they follow their leader out of belief, however rotten at the core it may be—but she does, and it makes all of this that much harder. Resentment isn't easily repressed.

Days pass and she struggles to make sense of the ancient Elvhen scribbled in a practiced, calligraphic handwriting along yellowed pages of a book with a bright cover. It's what attracted her to it. She can't attempt anything else right now anyway, so she reads and bids time.

Days pass so very slowly and she feels like she is going crazy, trapped within the confines of her own mind, until a familiar figure breaks the silence with a sigh.

She sees Solas from the corner of her eye. He is exhausted, pale, and can't stand upright without support. His fingers drum a lazy staccato on the wall against which his cheek is also pressed. He looks like he's about to slide down, boneless and spent.

"How?" he asks, and his voice shakes.

How they destroyed June's foci, pulverized Sylaise's, nearly located Ghilan'nain's before he made the sky burn. How they found all that he'd sealed away centuries ago in hopes of retrieving later. He's been forced to spread himself too thin, to draw on too much power, and it has taken its toll on him.

She wonders if he has time to rest. She shouldn't care.

Ellana flips through her hefty tome. "Despite what you may believe, you aren't the only one older than dirt."

The statement is vague enough so he doesn't know what she's talking about; she delights in this small torment.

His breath hitches. He waits for more, but it never comes.

Morrigan and her prodigious son with the soul of a true god of old. Bitter Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth and inadvertently Mythal, who came back to offer a chance at victory with a snarl and a snide remark in the form of a shy boy. The unassuming boy who hears voices and has always known too much.

Solas is speaking. He is saying something about her hair, about how the length suits her, about how she should braid it to avoid knotting. Idle talk meant to draw her in. Once, she would have jumped on the opportunity. He is not the type of man to initiate anything, let it be touch or long conversations, but now his voice, all honeyed tones and pleasant warmth, is too much to handle so she just keeps quiet.

"They've retreated to Tevinter," Solas says, "if my agents are correct." It's a bait she won't take.

"Good," Ellana says. Solas' reach isn't as wide there, though how much of Tevinter remains is the true question of the day.

That is all she gives him and eventually he departs, acknowledging defeat.

He is very lonely, she realizes yet again. Even surrounded by followers, by his dear People ready to offer worship and adoration he does not want, Solas remains alone.

He Who Hunts Alone, the Dalish called him. But he's hunted with the Inquisition for a few short years—with _her—_ and companionship isn't easily forgotten. Let the memory hurt him. He made his bed.

However, he returns a few days later, though he still hovers by the doorway.

"You scared Abelas into refusing to see you," Solas says. His voice is light; he's attempting a jest.

"Good," she answers. Abelas and his elitist ego belong at the other end of the world.

"I thought—"

She closes her book on her finger, marking the page. "Why would you think I'd want to see you? Go waste your breath somewhere else."

His gaze says what his lips are too smart to spill. _You'll be here a long time, Ellana. Might as well get used to it, Ellana. Won't you drop that book you can't read, Ellana._

Solas leaves.

The next time he seeks her out, weeks have passed and she's made it a bit more than a quarter into the story for, yes, it is a story, of that she is now certain. The words don't make much sense, but sometimes she picks out something familiar, something clicks, and she can pretend she understands.

He doesn't look tired and it scares her. If anything, there's a lightness to his step. He isn't pale.

"Whose orb did you steal?" she asks, eyes narrowing to tiny slits.

Usually, she wouldn't give him an opening. But it is late and there is a half-finished bottle of Antivan sherry keeping her company. Someone lit the fireplace that before went ignored, and she's very much a cat by the stove as she stretches out before the fire. Her hair is undone, tousled, and she hasn't bothered with the ties of her dress. It hangs loosely around her frame, too big, too awkward.

Solas smiles, looking very pleased with himself. He doesn't answer.

He settles beside her and his hand goes to her cheek. He's humming a melody without clear rhythm as his fingers dance over her flushed skin—and she allows it because she is so tired, and equally lonely, and desperately misses the quiet apostate he used to be. Because she vowed to save him from his folly until he went and proved himself worthy of the title the Dalish had bestowed upon him.

Ellana reaches for her glass, her hand trembling just a bit. At least, she thinks it's just a bit.

"...Tarasyl'an Tel'as," Solas is saying.

She stares at him, wide-eyed. "What?" Why is he talking about Skyhold? Just how tired is she?

He only shakes his head, still smiling, as he pries the glass from her tight hold and empties it himself. His lips are wet and cool with liquor, and he lowers them to her bare shoulder while his free hand rubs circles along her lower back.

She lets him.


	6. Diamondback

"You can't sleep here," Solas says.

His lips are at her ear, slightly moist, his breath warm as it whistles past his teeth. She feels her fingers as they curl into his collar, and her own mouth glides over his cheek. He smells like ink and elfroot and dust, and all that is missing is the subtle hint of paint. He wouldn't have the time to paint nowadays, it makes sense.

And because she can blame this on drink in the morning—because she misses _him_ , Solas, the very face he wears now—she accepts the gentle brush of his lips against her own. She wanted to redeem him so much, so very much it hurts still, but he burned that future just like he did the sky and it's not fair, nothing about this is, she is owed better—so many incoherent thoughts.

She exhales into his mouth, shuddering.

"Come with me," he whispers. His hands are on her neck, brushing lower, lower, lower. "Please, come with me."

A part of her mind tells her to bolt, to run, recognizing the threat in the reverent way he's speaking, the darkness behind the words. He thinks twenty steps ahead, and his lack of restraint should put her on edge—no restraint means he knows something she doesn't and feels safe enough to be bold.

She nips at his jaw, and he pulls her up, slips an arm around her waist, guides her out. He mutters Elvhen against her temple and sometimes he laughs, and when he does she does so with him because they look so very ridiculous, stumbling as they are—what would Abelas think?

Her mind refuses to cease reeling.

Solas closes the door behind them. He kisses her properly and she tugs at his robes. It's not her bed he pushes her down on, and these aren't her quarters, but she can't bring herself to care about any of it when he parts her thighs and settles between them.

"I didn't think I would see you again," he breathes against the hollow of her throat. "Not like this."

Indeed, not like this, she thinks and nearly kicks him.

"Stop talking," she says. His voice is treacherous. As if he has the right to say something like that, as if he isn't aware of their circumstances. If he speaks, then he might lie, and right now she is gone enough to believe him.

"Ma sa'lath." His tongue parts her lips. He wrestles her out of her clothes.

She pushes him back and for a second he is on his haunches, just staring at her, chest heaving. "I told you to stop talking," she repeats, and swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

His arms wrap around her as he drags her back down. Holds her in place. "I will," he promises. He kisses her cheek.

She arches against him and feels the lines of his face in the darkness. He doesn't speak, and she can pretend he's done nothing at all just like she pretends she can read her stupid book.

*

He kisses a path between her shoulder blades, then up and down her spine, tongue darting out to soothe the dry warmth of his lips. She is still groggy from sleep and it is still night, so she weakly turns her head to further expose her neck.

He covers her and she sighs at his weight, at the feel of him between her legs as he suddenly moves to take her. Her hand finds purchase in the sheets just as he groans into her shoulder. She pushes back against him and he whispers yet again something indiscernible into her skin, but she is too tired to remind him to keep quiet.

His thrusts turn erratic, jerky, and he collapses on top of her just briefly before rolling to his side and bringing her with him. He tucks her head under his chin. His hold does not relax until she goes back to sleep.

 *

The Fade feels different. Brighter. She doesn't recognize her surroundings, but then it doesn't matter because someone grabs her by the waist and then she's pressed against a familiar chest.

Dorian cradles her face between his hands. "Are you well?" he asks. "Where are you? I'm so sorry, I couldn't stop, I couldn't—"

Even in sleep, worry is draped heavily over his shoulders. She can feel it. She starts embracing him back before realizing, before remembering.

Dorian is oblivious to her panic. "He sent us back your crystal so we retreated. I thought you were—but he couldn't—not you—then again—" It's unlike Dorian to sputter; he's distressed.

She presses two fingers to his lips, silencing him. "You have to go. Not now, Dorian, you can't be here now. He'll know."

Solas slept in ancient ruins to glimpse modern history, all he missed, and walked through ages in the Fade. With him quite literally breathing down her neck, it wouldn't be difficult to barge into her dream at any moment.

"Fuck him," Dorian hisses and there's the familiar glint in his eyes as he smiles. The hint of malice she so adores and thought lost to sorrow. "I have a Somniari, a Dreamer, of my own."

"Hello," a quiet voice says.

Ellana peeks over Dorian's shoulder. A young man sits cross-legged on the ground, drawing abstract patterns in the sand with a twig. He doesn't look up at her. Some of his features are elven, but not enough to be pure-blooded.

"I have secured this pocket of the Fade," he continues. "Oh."

He stands and the twig slips between his fingers, dissipating to smoke. He touches the air around him, frowning at the change of colors. The bright palette of his creation turns dull.

"Not quite, it seems," he says. "Magister Pavus, we need to go."

"Feynriel, a little longer, my friend," Dorian entreats. His hands curl around her wrists; she has both her arms here.

"No, leave now," she protests, pushing him away. "Wake me up, Feynriel."

Dorian reaches out to her, but his voice is already muffled, an echo a mile away. "Ellana," he is saying, "you need to run. He is making a ba—"

She wakes.

*

Solas sits propped against the headboard, his hands folded in his lap.

"I couldn't find you in the Fade," he says.

She presses her face into the pillow to wipe sleep from her eyes before sitting up as well. Solas brushes the hair away from her face, smiling.

"Because you weren't invited," she grumbles.

It isn't how the Fade works—not for him. He knows it. She knows it. But she's only half-awake and it seems like that's enough for him to disregard her comment.

His fingers trail down her bare back as she rises. There's steaming tea on the nightstand, and she feels a little sick thinking of what the servant who brought it—specially for _her_ , at _his_ behest—must have thought, what all will think now.

"You are so beautiful," he whispers behind her.

"I'm glad you had your fun," she says, bitter.

His breath catches in his throat, and when she turns around, he looks sick in the face. He reaches for her, but she bats his hand away.

"Ellana—I didn't—you weren't," he says.

She shakes her head. No, he didn't. No, she wasn't. She wanted him, just like she wanted him when he walked through that damned eluvian after thwarting the Qunaris, but this is a rare moment of power. While he tortures himself thinking he took advantage of her, his mind will be too preoccupied to dwell on anything else.

He won't follow.

She first runs to the North Tower, but the wards there are too intricate for her to break. The East Tower, however, is an old and crumbling thing. The magic feels odd. And there's a window. Power only weakly laps at her fingertips when she touches the glass.

Ellana attempts to open it. She doesn't succeed. After beating her fist against it doesn't send her flying back, she is courageous enough to attempt a more drastic measure.

She throws an old, rotten chair against it.

It shatters. The window shatters.

The flutter of hope in her heart is short-lived. The glass picks itself back up and fuses together into a perfect replica of what it was before she destroyed it. She doesn't even have the time to thrust one hand through the mock opening.

When she is making her way down the stairwell—for the noise is sure to have attracted attention—Abelas comes running as if on cue.

She slips past him, but he follows.

"Are you well?" he asks, suspicious. "There was a commotion."

"I was playing Diamondback," she says. "You should try it one day."

Abelas stops walking. "Diamondback?"

"Yes, Diamondback," she repeats, and turns a corner to evade him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't want to sit through a 3-hour class tomorrow. Random trivia of the day.


	7. A Few Lies

She avoids Solas for several days.

Partly because she doesn't trust herself and her dreams, though it is foolish to think that such a meager distance between them would somehow safeguard her mind.

Partly because once her takes her hand, kisses her knuckles, tells her she's tired and attempts to steer her back to his rooms—and she still doesn't trust herself, but for different reasons.

She can't ask him what he's doing without drawing suspicion, no matter how much Dorian's words burn at the back of her mind.

But then he insists on having breakfast with her and she's never been more on edge. He doesn't even eat. He just sits at the head of the table and pens letter after letter, sometimes gazing up at her.

When she asks who it is he's even writing to as everyone is dead, he does not reply.

"Eat," Solas says, and she takes a hesitant bite.

He smiles, going back to scribbling.

When Abelas sweeps into the room, arms laden with documents, she feels her expression go sour. She goes to stand, pushing away her nearly untouched plate.

"Sit, vhenan," Solas says, not looking up.

They don't bother with hushed whispers. Solas and Abelas go on with their discussion for what feels like half an hour, the lilt of their ancient Elvhen distinctly beautiful but ultimately unnerving. It grates at her mind to be unable to understand.

This time she does get up, but Abelas is quick to block her escape. He mirrors her steps until she grows tired of their dance and shoves him.

"I will break your jaw," she says. It's not an idle threat; he knows she's capable of it. "Move."

Solas dips his quill in ink. "Please don't take out your anger on Abelas, vhenan." Then adds, "You need to eat. You've barely touched your food these past few days."

She scoffs. "You mean my justified anger?"

Solas sprinkles some pounce on the ink to dry it. Blows on the parchment. "Please don't take out your _justified_ anger on Abelas, vhenan."

"Is he your guard dog, now?"

No response from either of them.

When he realizes she's not about to back off, he sighs and nods at Abelas to depart who does so gladly. Solas pinches the bridge of his nose and frowns, as if exhausted from dealing with petulant children. It's a fair comparison. He's probably older than the Sentinel and the age difference between the two of them has always been criminal.

"I don't want to be here if all you're going to do is mock me," she says.

He catches her wrist when she stalks past him.

"Stay with me," he requests.

"Dorian will march on you," she says. "It's just a matter of time."

"He will not." He kisses her open palm. "He wouldn't risk you."

He rises then and his hands go to her waist. She doesn't have the time to protest as he hoists her up and lowers her back onto the table. Their foreheads press together as he slowly drags his lips from the tip of her nose to her cheek.

"So much for the dramatic farewell," she says, turning away when he tries to catch her lips. Not because she doesn't want to. Just out of spite. But he is so difficult to irritate.

"We have a new world now," Solas says as if that explains everything. "Ar lath ma."

He breathes warm air against her skin and makes no move until she offers him a nod.

She sighs when he kisses her throat and one of his hands sneaks between her thighs. His fingers slip beneath the waistband of her leggings.

"Do you still love me?" he asks.

His mouth drifts lower, over her collarbone and over the swell of her breasts. She wraps her legs around his hips and he presses against her with a satisfied sigh. She can feel his body's response, hard against her belly, and she shifts and wriggles just so until his breath comes in pants.

"Do you still love me?" he repeats, taking her face between his hands, his fingertips as calloused as she remembers them to be.

And because there's no point in lying, because he's always known her mannerisms whenever she spun a falsehood, and because she's certainly no Hissrad, Ellana just nods. It feels good, in a way, to admit it, though it is no great revelation.

She kisses him and for a while it's tender and chaste, a memory of when he played the recluse and she the Herald and they were happy in that lie.

"Then all is well," he murmurs, content.

No, all is not well. She doubts it will ever be again. But she does love him. She's chased him for so long to absolve him. It's a corrupted type of love at this point, but no less intense.

It doesn't hurt that while he thinks all is 'well', she has a little more freedom. She can lie too, if it will lower his guard.

So she kicks off her shoes and he tugs off her leggings before pushing her flat on the table. Such poor manners, Josephine would scold, but Josephine is dead. Ambassadors never last long in wars.

She embraces him too tightly as he enters her. Gasps. It's a hurried affair, she's not quite ready, and she doubts the grand double doors to the dining hall are even locked.

"You should sleep," he says against her throat, still moving. "Stop running around."

She freezes for but a second—but no, he thinks she's been neglecting deep sleep in favor of mapping his Keep, looking for weak wards and broken locks. He doesn't know the true reason.

She bites his lower lip and he stops talking.

Later, when it is night and she lounges on his chest, in his quarters, and finally gives in and goes to sleep, no one comes to find her in the Fade. Disappointment and relief are an odd combination; it makes her sick with worry.

No one comes except for Solas who shares an odd fact about Arlathan and conjures an echo from his youth. He keeps glancing her way, perhaps waiting for her to say how impressed she is, but she isn't. She just doesn't care about the glorious past he wishes to recreate.

In the corner of her vision the scenery ripples, but once Solas notices, his head snapping in the general direction with sudden force, all reverts to normal.

She acts clueless. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says. "Merely a curious spirit. It is gone now."

He doesn't even flinch as he lies.


	8. Bluffing as a Pastime

When Solas tenderly kisses her cheek in greeting after she barges into his study, hoping against hope not to find him there to rummage around the place, she shoves him.

"You can't just pretend everything is well," she snaps.

His eyes are downcast. "No, I cannot," he agrees, quietly. "But I can try setting things right. I love you."

A sudden headache nearly renders her senseless. She blinks in disbelief. "What could you make better? Raise from the dead all those you slaughtered? I didn't think so. Let me pass."

A smile teases at the corner of his lips; he is mocking her. "And what precisely have you come looking for, vhenan?" His fingertips skim over her jaw line. "Anything I can assist with?"

She hates how easily he's slipped back into their previous familiarity. Ellana raises her hands in a halting gesture. She's too tired to play polite.

"Don't," she says. "Go walk your dinan'shiral, or whatever it is you do these days. Whatever happened to that?"

The smile falls off his face. Irritation seeps into his features; his knuckles go bloodless as he clasps his hands at his back, turning away from her.

"You know very well," Solas says, walking to the window.

"We knocked you on your ass after your big dramatic speech and now you're scared."

He hums, pensive. "Someone has been spending too much time in the company of Sera, I see." His accent sounds thicker today.

Ah, and there it is. The endless circling around the matter at hand. Answers that aren't answers at all. She steps toward his desk and peers at his notes. There are symbols she recognizes, not in Elvhen, not in Common, but rather complex diagrams. Before his attention shifts back to her, she shoves the crumpled piece of parchment into her pocket.

"Will you join me for dinner tonight?" Solas asks, finally turning around. His mask is back in place, his smile carefully chosen to tug at the strings of her heart. It's the same subtle grin he used to give her whenever she strode into his rotunda.

Ellana ignores him. "How do you expect this to end?" She doesn't intend to whisper, but she does. Her head hurts. "There will be more bloodshed. More fighting. And after that—what happens after that?"

He guides her chin upward with two fingers, studying her expression. She bats his hand away, loathing this position of power he's thrust into whenever he resorts to that gesture. She won't stand still, craning her neck, while he looks down on her.

Solas catches her by the shoulder instead. "We rebuild," he says.

"There will be nothing left to rebuild," she protests.

"Perhaps you will stay with me," he continues, disregarding her thinly veiled insult.

Perhaps.

The word sounds foreign coming from him.

Ellana brushes past him. It's time to leave. There is too much temptation to start a fight, to break down, to just accept it all. Too many variants.

"Please return what you have taken," he says. "I have no desire to quarrel, Ellana."

She throws the parchment down, making sure to stomp on it. When it tears, she feels a childish pang of satisfaction. Solas sighs, but makes no move to stop her.

It doesn't matter.

She has the diagrams memorized. She'll be able to recreate them for Dorian.


	9. He Never Hoped Before

Solas is tired again.

She feels conflicted. Happy that his guard is down in these rare moments; disgusted with herself from delighting in it. She should be above such petty feelings.

He keeps writing, calculating, crumpling pages and setting them aflame if she wanders too close. His lap is covered with ash. Still, he allows her to remain. She suspects the sight of her appeases him somewhat. His eyes are bloodshot and his nails have already left many imprints in the mahogany surface of his desk.

When one of the flaming pages falls too close to his sleeve and it too, in turn, catches fire, she decides this madness of his has gone on long enough. She coats the skin of her palm with an ice spell and puts it out for him.

He stopped suppressing her magic a while ago; after she realized his wards couldn't be broken and quit trying.

"Come to bed," Ellana says, tugging at his wrist. "You're shaking."

His smile is a little deranged as he rises, laughs, and presses his lips to her forehead. "You still care," he says, still chuckling, mouth still mapping her face in a series of feverish kisses. "You are so good."

"You're not making any sense. Go sleep."

Of course she still cares. She never stopped. Could never carve the feeling out no matter how sharp the blade—foolish, lovelorn Ellana.

She feels an odd kind of fright curl itself around her throat. In the past Solas could be remarkably intense whenever he set his mind to a task, but this is a facet of his character she hasn't been introduced to. This new determination is draining him dry—and it is terrifying. Time must be of the essence if he's pushing limits at the risk of sacrificing coherent thought.

Solas loves the Fade. He wouldn't willingly deprive himself of it.

Something is very wrong.

"I need to work," he says. "Don't let me keep you up, vhenan."

She sees him reach for a book, but he does not return to his desk. "I'm not tired." She chooses her words carefully, as not to appear overly eager. "I will read for a while, I think."

He takes the bait. Solas looks at her through heavy-lidded eyes. "I am headed for the library as well."

"If you must," she says.

Ellana can't help the juvenile smirk which fights itself to her lips when she hears him shuffle behind her. For all his intelligence, he could always be fooled so very easily as far as mundane things were concerned. After Iron Bull commented on his wiry strength, she'd tricked him into being her own personal ladder as she climbed his shoulders to reach a tree—for vantage, she'd said, but then only laughed down at him from the branch while he scowled and chided.

All of this seems so long ago now. It is. It quite literally belongs in another world.

The library has only one chaise, and he goes to kneel by the fireplace when she claims it, considerate for once.

She still can't properly read her book. It's pathetic at this point to persist and she's not really sure why she does.

"When are you going to put an end to this farce?" she asks.

"Please, vhenan, I have no strength left to sustain an argument at the moment," Solas murmurs. His fingers make up for the absence of a quill as he draws invisible patterns over the yellowed pages.

Ellana sighs. "Come here. Don't stay on the floor."

She doesn't object when he joins her, nor when his arms wrap around her and she's left pressed to his chest as he reads over her shoulder. His book makes little sense, it is in Elvhen, and he makes no effort to conceal the words. Her chest aches with memories of Skyhold—memories she smothers as soon as they reach the surface.

She startles when he nuzzles her neck and laughs into her skin, his breath very hot. "I might fall asleep. You are very warm."

"Good," Ellana says, keeping her tone even. "Stop talking so I can do the same."

He tries to gently push her off, attempting to stand. "We should—"

"I'm not moving."

He kisses the ticklish spot behind her ear. "Ma nuvenin."

It's decidedly not the time, but she feels the telltale heat in her belly. He shouldn't be able to make her feel this way, not after everything. She shifts until her head rolls back onto his shoulder and his hands fold over her stomach.

She knows he's fallen asleep when his breathing slows.

She's waited for this moment for so long.

He is too weary—he won't be wandering the Fade tonight to pester her.

*

She walks in circles for what feels like a millennium, ignoring the occasional spirit, until the Fade begins to shift and mold around her. Of all the places, she finds herself in Skyhold's Undercroft. Dorian bursts into her dream without any of his usual grace, nearly stumbling in his hurry, Feynriel a quiet shadow at his heels.

They embrace in silence and she thinks she's crying, unless she's forgotten how to breathe which is a fair possibility. She can't release him even after he's called her an idiot for the umpteenth time, though his own voice falters and breaks.

So many rely on him now. She had only the Inquisition to lead, but he's faced with the burden of Tevinter as well now that she is gone. Two heavy charges thrust at him without warning.

"Do we have time, Feynriel?" Dorian asks. His fingers roam over her back.

"He's exhausted," Ellana replies in his stead. "He won't come."

"Yes," Feynriel agrees. "We are alone."

She pulls back at last. "What did you try to tell me?"

The same urgent worry as last time twists his features into an ugly mask. "You need to run, Ellana. Claw your way out if you must, but run. I can't come for you."

"I know, Dorian." She doesn't want him to.

He seizes her by the forearms and shakes her—it is violent enough to make her head hurt. "No, you don't," he growls. "He's barricading himself, Ellana, he's raising a barrier. Between us and his brave new old world—whatever it is he calls it—to shield it."

The emphasis on her name, which he speaks as though it will anchor her to reality, tints his words with desperation. It's an unattractive color on him.

Dorian looks like he's about to crawl out of his skin. "We were forced to retreat. That's why he needed you—he knew we'd fall back if he demanded. It gave him the time and the terrain to lay out the foundation."

"You won't be able to cross, Inquisitor," Feynriel finishes, and he is much milder than Dorian.

Inquisitor. She is the leader of a dead organization, disbanded and forced underground. There are so few of them left, and the trail of bloody, faceless sacrifices grows larger every day; the thought nearly shatters her. It would be so easy to lay down her arms and accept that Cole has vanished, that Vivienne is harder than rock and no longer a friend, that Leliana is a shadow whose existence is only ever betrayed by an occasional missive, that Sera might be as good as dead for the Red Jennies have ceased their meddling. She is already all splinters and cracks, requires but a single shove.

"He was never going to let me go." The realization chokes the breath out of her.

All the pieces fall in place and sense is made. His boldness, his renewed affection, the words of love spoken so freely whereas before he struggled with every syllable, every soft touch. He thinks he has time to change her mind and make amends.

An endless supply of it.

Solas has always been so infuriatingly patient.

This is a _pleasant side-benefit_ for him, her getting trapped on his side.

"I need a distraction, I can't break his wards," she pleads.

"I can't move from Tevinter. Not yet. Not quite so soon." Dorian comes undone. He slouches, pressing his face into her shoulder. When he speaks, his words are breathless apologies which waft over her collarbone. "I am so sorry, Ellana. It's the only base we have left."

She tears herself away from him. By some miracle, there are parchments scattered around the Undercroft and when she asks Feynriel for a quill, he also conjures some ink. She draws the diagrams, willing her memories to be sharp and her hand steady.

"He was studying these," she murmurs, handing the sheets to Dorian. "I don't recognize them."

"Neither do I," Dorian mutters, scratching his jaw. "I will endeavor to uncover what I can; we still have the old grimoires from the raided temples. If I can somehow unhinge him by tinkering with these, I shall. It might provide you with an opening. Feynriel, do take a look, if you please. We need to memorize as much as we can."

"Of course," the young man acquiesces. "I will remember them." The Fade shifts to accommodate him; he is like smoke, carried from one extreme to the other, his form blown away and recreated at Dorian's back.

He is softer than Solas; the Fade cajoles Feynriel whereas it bows down to the Dread Wolf, and the change is palpable.

She cups Dorian's cheek who catches her hand and leans into the touch, shuddering. "Don't come again. Not unless you must. He sensed you last time."

"I wasn't fast enough," Feynriel says, sorrowful.

"I understand," Dorian whispers. "Find your way back, Ellana. I need my friend. I can't do this alone."

There is so much left unspoken, so much that cannot be voiced. He fears she will fail or worse—stay. He was the one to mend her heart twice over; he doesn't know how much more of it remains now that she's back with the man responsible for crushing it.

"If he demands something—anything—from you again, don't give in," she says. "He won't hurt me."

Dorian's smile is a grimace. "I can't risk that."

There is an echo of Solas in his words, and it's what causes her to wake, gasping.

She is spluttering and coughing with Solas rubbing her back and offering water, but she can't trust herself to breathe, much less drink.

Finally, the pretense slips from his features and he is no enigma—he dares to hope, it is clear now. She has never been more acutely aware of her time running out. The remnants are crushed beneath Solas' heel with every smile, every gentle touch and heartfelt promise.

She wishes she could be the one to end him.

She wishes.

Instead, she welcomes his tender embrace. He loves. He is sincere. And so is she. He does not look like a monster, doesn't appear to be the man who brought her world to its knees to restore an echo of a past that was in no way sacred. And yet she knows what he is—and it changes close to nothing. Her hand will always tremble; she will never be the one to deliver the final blow he so deserves.

If fate were to offer her a dagger by the hilt and bare his throat to her, she knows she would drop the blade at his feet. This isn't how he was supposed to return to her. Perhaps he shouldn't have returned at all.

"You should have left me alone," she says, gripping his shoulders.

"Yes," he agrees, and mercifully adds no more.

She can't be the one to hurt him, but she will run until the wind is knocked out of her.


	10. So Many Promises

Dorian does not listen. Or perhaps he does, and it is the others that do not heed his advice.

No matter the circumstances, she finds herself facing Morrigan next time she drifts off.

No greetings or inquiries after one another's welfare are exchanged. She does not delude herself as to Morrigan's nature.

"Tis most unfortunate," Morrigan states, gesturing at the nothingness engulfing them.

"It's one way to put it," Lavellan says. She crosses her arms. "You are no Dreamer, as far as I know. How are you here?"

Morrigan shrugs. She's always been so talented at half-truths. "It matters not, Inquisitor."

"Then what does?"

There is always something with her. A favor for a favor, a truth for a lie. She is more of the Dread Wolf of legends than Solas himself, trading promises for corrupted hope.

"Tell me, are you still very much the lovesick idiot?"

This collaboration of theirs is a product of necessity; Lavellan is aware she dances on the knife's edge every time she faces the woman who takes no side but her own.

"I told him nothing," she says, careful. "You know I wouldn't."

Morrigan inclines her head and in the shadows she is the reflection of her mother. "Let us hope your words are true."

"They are."

"Your Tevinter friend is intent on getting you back," Morrigan continues. "He will not accept it may be a fool's errand. His hope is dangerous and his words carry weight. He will lead us into an ambush."

She feels it, just underneath the surface, the barest hint of a threat. Morrigan offered hope and she cannot spit in her face, but both have their teeth bared.

It takes Morrigan exactly three calculated steps to bring their faces a hairbreadth from each other.

"Tis my son," she says, quietly, eyes darkening as her lips curl into something infinitely more dangerous than a smile, "who helped you nearly overthrow the Dread Wolf. Tis him who is now in danger with you locked away."

Ellana curls her fingers into the fur collar of Morrigan's robes. "I will not betray you nor myself. I fought too hard."

"Too hard for a world that ended up in ashes anyway," Morrigan snarls. Her hand is at her throat now and she slams her against a hardened surface until her skull cracks. "What keeps you from siding with your lover now?"

A throaty gasp is all Lavellan can manage. "You can't believe that."

Morrigan exhales. Her eyes flutter shut. "Not entirely," she whispers. "You are a mage, are you not?"

"As you are."

"Well then. Flee, Inquisitor, as your friend advised. Flee fast before Fen'Harel catches on and rummages through your mind."

Ellana scoffs. Pushes the other woman away. "I fully intend to." She dusts herself off, even if there is nothing but overpowering fear on her skin and that is not something mere touch can chase away.

Then Morrigan does smile, and with it the image of her shifts as she retreats deeper into the shadows. "Good. What is the saying? If one dies in the Fade, one never awakens at all At least, not whole." Her voice twists into an echo until it is nothing but a cold waft of air at her ear.

She is Flemeth and she is Mythal, a fucked-up and terrifying chimera that stalks her steps with bloodshot eyes and a lopsided grin.

It's hard to remember, and she doesn't want to.


	11. Don't Think

Solas seems very happy when she meets him halfway as he leans down to kiss her. He idly coils tendrils of her hair around his fingers. He looks ridiculous, too grand for life, but she won't tell him that. And even if she did he would probably either dismiss her or say something about keeping up appearances. Not that she's ever been an avid supporter of his collection of sweaters during the days of the Inquisition—a number she suspects amounted to three or four, if she's being generous—but this is just too bizarre to look at.

"So let me get this straight," she says when his lips move gently to her cheek. "You didn't have time to stay for just a moment after Corypheus fell to say goodbye, but you've found more than enough to commission expensive garments?" She runs her hand down his chest, loosening the occasional clasp and buckle; it's not unlike Dorian's battlemage armor, if not a tad lighter, and she knows how to undo it. "What is this? Brocade? Ring velvet?"

Dorian would probably make a quip about gold pants, but she doesn't mind those too much.

Solas just shakes his head. "Vhenan," he says, tone chiding.

"Solas," she says back in the same voice.

It throws him off long enough for her to part the outer layers of his robes, and from there it isn't hard to find flesh. He shivers and catches her wrist when her fingers crawl over his hip, his stomach, lower.

They are in his garden—the true color of the sky has been concealed by a spell, a fact she hates for it's another way to keep her ignorant—and Solas has always been touchy about privacy. He's exhausted his supply of boldness for years to come after he took her on the table in the dining hall.

And it's good. It's really good. She wants him not thinking straight.

The garden is a hedge maze, in truth, with occasional restored statues retrieved from ruined temples positioned around corners for direction. All in all she's being kind. She could have pushed him against the wall in a crowded corridor.

She nips the sensitive spot beneath his jaw as he shudders, labored breaths wheezing through gritted teeth. She takes his hands, one by one, and brings them to her chest. Her dress is flimsy and requires no breastband. He palms each breast through the fabric, gaze downward now as he cups the soft flesh.

He doesn't want to risk pushing her away. He's scared she won't come back if he does. She's already won.

"Here?" he whispers, kissing her forehead as chastely as he can manage. Then, contradicting himself, slides his hands down her back and over her ass, rolling his hips against hers to relieve some of the tension.

"Here," she says.

He make a sound in his throat, something akin to a strangled grunt, and pushes her down onto the grass. He gathers fistfuls of her skirts and hitches the material over her hips. She could almost laugh at his hastiness.

Oh, no, she muses, what would the proud Elvhen think if they caught the Dread Wolf in the middle of a juvenile tumble in the garden with the Dalish Inquisitor. But she doesn't laugh. She presses against him and reaches down to grip the painfully hard length of him where it burns against the inside of her thigh.

He tries to kiss her, very tenderly, just as his hips give a violent jerk, not so tenderly. She thinks he might come just like this, in her palm, and can't decide what would be better. She turns her head away but not before catching sight of the crestfallen expression he wears. Good. He turns his attention to her throat and she knows it's because this way he doesn't have to look her in the eye. As if he could delude himself. As if she would let him.

Before long, he pulls her hand away. He weaves their fingers together and kisses her nose. He is so warm, nearly feverish, and she can feel the frantic beating of his heart even through the thick layers of his robes. He moves. He bites her shoulder to keep quiet. His palm clamps over her mouth to achieve a similar result and she can feel the slight tremor which makes his wrist twitch just so. She encourages his frenzied pace by wrapping her legs around him; he's slim, has always been, it isn't hard.

It doesn't take him long, not long at all. If she cared, she could have probably counted the exact number of times he thrust between her legs. But she doesn't really care. Because this is funny. This is _hilarious_ and exactly what she hoped to achieve.

Come to think of it, she reflects as Solas struggles to regain his countenance, he probably froze the locks on the doors to the dining hall that time. Food for thought.

He is so worried someone might stumble upon them that she wants to throw her head back and roar her laughter. Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf of legends, the Bane of her Existence and the Destroyer of Worlds, is _very very very_ uncomfortable with sex in public places.

He stays on top of her, brushing hair away from her face. There's a trail of bruises on her throat and wetness clinging to her thighs, but he is so warm that she forgets wanting a bath for a second.

Solas somewhat calms down but then because he is considerate and she is not, his hand sprawls over her stomach and drifts lower. And this time she's the one panting in his mouth as he coaxes an orgasm out of her. He refuses to stop kissing her for quite some time, trapping her face between his hands. She can taste his desperation on her raw lips.

He nuzzles her throat and his tongue darts out to lap at her pulse point. "I love you so dearly," he says. "Why are you doing this?" He rests his cheek against her collarbone.

He knows. Of course he does, because why wouldn't he? He spent years deceiving her; it's only fair that he can see right through her little game. But he's affected and his breath quickens when it takes her a moment too long to echo his words of love. So, in a way, she's still the winner.

She supposes she should hold him—she wants to badly, but no, no, no bad Ellana, don't ruin it—but instead her hand only absentmindedly roams over his back.

"Where is Fen'Harel?" Abelas asks after she leaves the garden.

Solas isn't far behind, but she jumps on the opportunity. He is still flustered, she knows. "Behind me," she says, channeling Vivienne's nonchalance and detached haughtiness.

If anything, it will make for an awkward encounter.

This is good, she reminds herself for the umpteenth time. Good. She wants him distracted. She wants him not to look left, right and left again before making a decision.


	12. He Isn't Kind

Abelas comes to fetch her and she feels uprooted by this sudden change in routine.

He brings a replica of the dragon scale tunic she wore before the sky started burning. He patiently waits by the door while she fumbles with the fastenings. Too many buckles, too many clasps; she's never been able to don it without assistance even with her prosthetic arm. It feels a little like defeat when she emerges from her quarters and Abelas gives her an appraising look over.

Then averts his eyes. He doesn't care—and it is more truth than Solas has offered her since her coming here. What irony indeed.

"Where are we going?" she asks. She pretends her heart doesn't flutter, that she isn't a nervous wreck.

"To negotiations," Abelas says. He holds a door open for her. "You are needed."

Obviously, she thinks. Otherwise his and Solas' precious boy club would have happily left her out. Still, it was only a matter of time; unlike Solas who is happy to steal kisses and smiles and live in his own little world of deception within a world where the Veil is down, she never forgets her status of political prisoner.

But then her heart isn't fluttering anymore. It sets a furious pace and she knows it shows in her face.

Solas is waiting for them by an eluvian. He doesn't smile when he sees her, but his eyes do soften, and at once he's tugging at her tunic. He smooths the rough edges and redoes the fastenings so the whole attire is presentable.

"Good morning," he says.

She doesn't answer. He's baiting and she won't bite. Still, he's unfazed as he walks away to activate the mirror.

Abelas stands at her side, ever the watchful guard dog as he trails Solas’ every move with his eyes.

It's juvenile, but she can't help the quip that escapes her. "It's the armor, it makes him look bulkier. He's not actually happy to see you." Words are all she has left.

If Solas hears her, he makes a good show of ignoring the comment. He seems to have mastered the art of selective hearing as far as she's concerned.

Abelas snorts. He actually snorts. That small reaction infuses his frigid image with a sliver of humanity. But then he speaks, and his tone is unnervingly even. "I prefer them with longer hair. Something to pull at."

Well all right then, she decides. Being Fen'Harel's right hand apparently comes with the privilege of free speech. Perhaps a bit too much of it.

And thank you kindly Abelas for sharing your sexual preferences, thank you indeed, because that makes everything better. Crucial information.

Still.

Still she supposes there’s something to be done with this. Maybe she can annihilate his further attempts at conversation.

“Top or bottom?” she asks.

“It depends,” Abelas answers, not missing a beat.

Solas just looks at them as if they're unruly children.

She bites her lip and stops trying.

"I am trying to coexist," Abelas says, taking cue from her silence. "And obviously you only respond to crass remarks."

"Good dog," she says.

"After you, Inquisitor," he says, gesturing toward the eluvian.

Solas slips an arm around her waist before they step through. He's being very familiar. She has half a mind to shrug him off, but this feels nice and he's not talking, not lying. His hand is a pleasant weight where it rests inches from her stomach.

The first details she registers as they emerge from the swirling magic of purples and greys is 'archon robes' and 'tan skin.' Mere glimpses as her eyes water, but it's enough to make her frantic.

And then she thinks damn it Dorian.

Damn you to hell and back Dorian.

The woman stands among the elven ruins as if she owns them, so tall she comes at eye-level with Solas—so, so utterly...Tevinter. Regal clothes and natural haughtiness and a staff that has known the delicacies blood magic has to offer. She tilts her head to watch their approach, short pale hair framing her chiseled face in elegant waves.

Behind her, a static cage encircles a curious object. Lightning mingles with blood. The pattern of runes carved into the skin of her forearms glow from recent use.

She daintily steps over an elven scout with a slit throat; it is his blood that powers the spell, and she makes no attempt at concealing her machinations as she takes her sweet time to wipe the guilty dagger clean against her thigh.

Solas' jaw clenches. "It was unwarranted," he snaps. "He was here to welcome you."

The woman huffs, unperturbed. "We both know you would never _welcome_ a human, Dread Wolf."

"Unwarranted," Solas repeats. “He had no quarrel with you.”

"Yes, but I felt a little outnumbered and his haircut offended me." She makes a display of counting all the elves present. "Still outnumbered, but there's one less. Good enough. I'll take it."

“I have pulled my forces out of Qarinus,” Solas says. “The Inquisitor is here; she is well, judge for yourself. It is time for you to honor your end of the agreement.”

“You make it all sound so civil,” the woman laughs. She stalks past him, plants both feet firmly into the ground before Lavellan. Her smile is radiant; she is beautiful in a fierce way, a warrior without a sword. “Hello there,” she says. “You _are_ well, are you not? If you lie I’ll know.” Two of her fingers rise to gently tap her on the nose.

Lavellan can’t fight a grin, her amusement flaring at this wild woman who turns her back to Fen’Harel and trusts he won’t bare his teeth.

“I am,” she says at last.

“Maevaris Tilani,” the mage says, inclining her head with respect that isn’t tinged with mockery. “I am saddened that introductions must be made like this, but it is an honor.”

It is a name she knows, a name she respects. This is the woman who sparked a Tevinter rebellion, a magister of the decent sort.

“Likewise,” Ellana murmurs.

Maevaris pulls her in for a handshake, but the moment her skin touches hers, she feels a prickle against her wrist. A small rivulet of blood trickles down her forearm and terrible, paralyzing pain curses through her arm. It feels like bones and joints fuse together, break off and block her veins.

Ellana wrestles herself free, involuntarily stepping back into Solas. He grips her wrist and she shares his horror as they both stare at the rune design that’s been seared into her flesh.

“I am sorry, Inquisitor,” Maevaris says. Her voice is soft now, low. Sincere. “A favor for a friend. Magister Pavus sends his regards. I may have exaggerated when I said I’d know if you lied; we will be certain now.” She points her long finger at Solas, fresh blood lodged beneath the nail, “If you hurt her, there will be a reckoning, Dread Wolf.”

Ellana feels the exact moment Solas snaps. She doesn’t have the time to figure out what he casts, but Maevaris is faster and the force of her retaliating mindblast is enough to make her knees weak.

“Take your toy and leave,” Maevaris drawls. “We may have broken it a little, though.”

“That is not all,” Solas says. “There is more.”

“Oh?” Maevaris exclaims, feigning shock. “Yes, yes, indeed. I did promise you a second artifact, didn’t I? Well, I am no fool. My agents will deliver it after I am safely gone.”

Solas takes off his gloves.

She doesn’t know why this little detail unsettles her so. Gloves. Not gauntlets. Odd.

He fade-steps over to Maevaris and seizes her arm, nails digging hard enough into flesh to scratch the surface. He examines the markings before the magister shoves him off.

“Never let it be said that Tevinter knows not courtesy,” Maeveris says, waving her hand to dispel the spell caging the artifact. “All my love, Inquisitor.”

She leaves as Solas kneels in the dirt to gather the broken pieces of something that must have once been grandiose. It wouldn’t be a far-fetched notion to entertain that all the mages of Tevinter, Dorian included, took a hammer to it. It’s not just broken, it’s shattered; the static cage has been holding the pieces together but now it falls apart.

Solas sighs, but motions at Abelas to gather the fragments anyway.

He washes his hands with rain water from a cracked stone basin before rejoining her. This is taking disgust with humans to a whole new level, she thinks with scorn.

“I will reverse it,” he promises, kissing her knuckles.

She doesn’t want him to, but saying so will result in him playing deaf as per usual. So she just stays quiet.

He goes a little white in the face then. Blood flows from his nose. Thick droplets bridge the gap between upper and lower lip before gathering at his chin and dripping onto her hand.

She wishes she felt nothing, but her chest constricts painfully and she forgets how to breathe. “Vhenan,” she whispers, using her own sleeve to subdue the bleeding.

But Solas is unconcerned. He just turns to Abelas who offers him a little vial filled with clear liquid. He downs it in a single swallow.

“Eight hours, give or take,” Abelas says, pensive, as he watches the sun in the sky reach its peak.

“Perhaps a little more, she received a lesser dose,” Solas says. “At any rate, it will be enough time for her to give the order.”

“Yes,” Abelas agrees.

Lavellan feels sick to the stomach as realization hits; it bashes her over the head and it’s all she can do not to keel over.

He isn’t kind.

He will always send back a message if it feels like he’s losing the upper hand.

Of course. Of course. A mage would never suspect poison—wouldn’t even consider that Solas, the man who breathes and worships magic, would sink so low as to rub it into his own flesh. Such crude technique, no finesse whatsoever. He needs no spell to hurt them, and isn't that a bold and terrifying declaration.

Foolish, brash Maevaris who offered him a golden opportunity to touch her naked skin.

Solas tucks her head under his chin as he forcefully embraces her. Abelas has already gone through the eluvian. They are alone and she almost wishes they weren’t.

“I wish you had not witnessed that,” he murmurs. “I am sorry.”

But he isn’t. She doesn’t know why he insists on lying.


	13. Vhenan

They've fought before, both directly and indirectly. With poignant words in angry correspondence; through their agents as both sides sought to undermine the other in the shadows; with fabulous displays of power as she destroyed his temples or he decimated her best battalion of archers.

However this is entirely different as, for once, she has nothing at her disposal but raw anger.

He leaves her alone for several days following the negotiations—she cringes at the term—with Maevaris. Presumably to restore the artifact. She hopes it's beyond salvaging.

She almost wishes for Abelas' company before Solas comes to find her, so lonely she is. Maybe they could discuss their favorite positions or insult each other. Anything to break the monotony.

"Vhenan," Solas says.

She kicks her legs up so the heat from the hearth warms the underside of her ankles. She tosses a grape into the fire. "Why do you insist on calling me that?" she asks. Why does she return the endearment in moments of weakness.

Another grape leaves her fingers.

"Because you are my heart," Solas says simply, so simply, as if she is a child and he the patient tutor. Which he has been at Skyhold, even before that at Haven. But she doesn't go to him for wisdom anymore and he has no knowledge to bestow that she would welcome.

She winces. "No. Arlathan is your heart. Maker knows you did more for a memory than you ever did for me." Yes, why not invoke the name of a deity she never believed in while a very real one stands before her.

Blasphemy, Keeper Deshanna would chide. Maybe she ought to braid floral wreaths to appease the wrath of the Dread Wolf.

She voices the thought aloud and Solas shares his fondness for Crystal Grace.

He is unaffected; it's not her best line. "Arlathan—Elvhenan is my purpose," he corrects, shaking his head as he always does when pointing out her mistakes.

"You used to call me vhenan as well," he says.

"You still do," he says, taking her hand and pulling her out of the chair so he can look at the mark Maevaris left her with.

"Slip of the tongue," she lies, bitter. She stares at the crackling fire until her vision goes blurry.

If only, if only. It would make all of this so much easier.

"I don't believe so," he replies, voice low and lazy. "I have always been very patient. I will wait you out." He pauses, his eyes are trained at his feet. He murmurs, "I understand that the circumstances are not ideal, but I have you now. You have me too."

Whatever the fuck that means.

Perhaps she truly did spend too much time with—no, not Sera. Sera has gone underground. But definitely Hawke; the man invented half the expletives of this world and the last. She wonders if he survived, hopes against impossibility that somewhere, in the depths of Kirkwall, his hoarse voice still sings lewd tavern songs over a pint of ale.

"This is unlike you," she says. "You didn't want me before, but now you want me too much. Where is the cold-hearted son of a bitch who ripped off my arm and what have you done with him?"

"Things changed," he says.

"You changed," she says.

But those words of his are ominous, no matter how clueless she acts it can't be denied. She remembers Dorian's warning, tries to forget Morrigan's threat, but they swirl in her mind, fighting for dominance until coherence waves her goodbye.

She reclaims her hand from him.

"It doesn't hurt," she says.

"I am glad for it," Solas answers. "Give me your arm."

"That would be a no."

"I simply wish to make sure it is of no danger to you," he insists. "We don't even know what it does."

She tries to walk around him. He stops her with a hand on her shoulder. "If wishes were fishes," Ellana sneers.

"We'd have a barrel," Solas is quick to chime in.

Once, she might have laughed at that.

She likes his eyes. They're the same shade of blue as years ago. It's a detail she shouldn't be contemplating.

"Don't touch me," she says, stepping away. "You're not taking the mark." Not like he did with Dorian's crystal. She's not losing anything else of his.

His expression says what he does not—he's not backing off. She is lightning and Solas has always been everything else; still, it is the facet of elemental magic he most often neglected. She shocks his hand when he reaches for her. She takes exactly three steps back before arming herself with a book.

"I can throw it hard enough to break your nose," she warns. Not that he deserves a warning.

He once told her he got his nose broken in a most graceless dispute; something about a compliment that wasn't a compliment during his younger years. Perhaps it's time to repeat the incident—he does so enjoy living in the past, after all.

"Please don't," he entreats. Then adds, "Vhenan."

She hurls the hefty tome at him and it ignites inches from his face. Ashes float in the air around them; his breath carries them forward, hers pushes them back.

"That was a Brother Genitivi original," he laments. "I valued that text."

"I'm sure I can find something even rarer," she remarks, and makes a little display of perusing the library shelves.

"I will not fight you," he says.

"Well that's a crying shame because I certainly will fight you if you come any closer," she replies.

Before she can react, he fade-steps over and slams her into the wall. She feels the prodding of his magic, the invasion coursing through her veins as he attempts to unravel the mystery of the mark. It tugs at Maevaris' signature, what little of it remains, but instead of coming undone there is nothing. Just nothing. And he is baffled.

He isn't used to not knowing.

Everything _should_ obey him now, yet it doesn't. How disconcerting it must be.

When she manages to wrestle free just a little bit, Lavellan smacks him with everything she can muster. Solas is taken aback and nearly stumbles before regaining his footing. He seems utterly undisturbed that she hit him, though when she chances a second blow he catches her arm—her fake arm. She doesn't feel it—how could she—but sees his fingers leave deep indentations in the dawnstone.

That's no easy feat. It's what reminds her that he is no longer _just_ Solas. This is the man with veilfire in his eyes.

His pupils are blown wide.

She's hit with a pang of fear.

"Solas?" she asks, hesitantly.

"Vhenan," he whispers.

Her arm feels cold—wet. She's not certain what to expect when she looks down, but it is certainly not _that_. Her skin is shredded, as if a thousand knives have been taken to it, ribbons of flesh hanging loosely and almost exposing veins. And yet there is no pain—though the mark is still somehow visible, burning bright, glowing.

She is dizzy.

Blood flows freely, staining his hand and her pants as it drips—pours. He puts his sleeve over it, but it is soon soaked through.

"What have you done?" she demands, and her voice shakes.

He appears as bewildered as she is. "Nothing," he mutters. "I have done nothing at all." His frown is so severe that the scar between his eyebrows is made deeper for it.

Healing magic follows as he tends to the damage, but to her surprise—and most importantly his—nothing happens. Nothing except a sharp pain and renewed bleeding. Yet when she tries it, the wound closes just fine. There isn't even a scar.

Solas has always been the group's healer when they went out on expeditions. There is no universe in which he could have confused two spells.

The mark won't let him use his magic on her—not unless he's willing to watch her die or suffer. Which he isn't, apparently. Not now. Not yet.

In a morbid sort of way, she has never been more grateful for blood magic. Or his disinterest in it which led to him never truly studying it. And isn't that saying something.

Satisfaction must be written all over her features because he steps away, horrified and enraged rolled in one.

What dance are you dancing Dorian, she thinks and feels dread coil around her throat.

He nearly vibrates with fury.

She isn't stupid enough to imagine that this is only about her getting hurt, though it plays a large role. He will not tolerate being thwarted in his own home.

"Solas," she says, reaching out to him.

He accepts her touch absentmindedly; she might as well be caressing a wall. She tries to distract him with a kiss, but he only gives her a berating look. He sees right through her.

"I want quiet. I want to rebuild what was lost," he hisses. "I am tired of this war— _so tired_. I want nothing to do with the shemlen, but if they don't retreat—" And there he cuts himself short, making a dismissive gesture with his hand.

She can't believe she actually has to explain this to him. He wants, he wants, he wants—from them, from her, from the world. But she thinks she has nothing but resentment left to spare and if that's the case for her—the only living person left to miserably _love_ him—then what can be taken from the rest of the world.

He can't be reasoned with; he is a little mad from his failures. She doesn't know what to do and her lower lip trembles before she speaks.

"You burned their world," she says, softly. "What did you expect?"

"I expected them not to live through it," he says.


	14. While It Is Early

This is a very nice morning, she thinks.

She is roused from sleep by soft lips pressed to the corner of her own. He runs his nose up her cheek and breathes hot air onto her skin before giving the hollow of her throat a gentle lick. She shivers, momentarily cold as the blankets are pulled away, and he shifts to cover her. Then, she is warm; Solas is warm.

She’s not sure why she traces the sharp lines of his face. Why her fingers walk along his cheekbones and dip into the small cleft at his chin.

He shudders, and she remembers why.

He is Solas now. He looks like Solas. The apostate who was happy with frilly cakes, and derived a perverse pleasure from pointing out inaccuracies in this or that scholar’s work on the Fade.

Solas was hers. Fen’Harel wouldn’t allow himself to be—until now, but she can’t think about that just yet.

“Good morning,” he says.

He recites it like a mantra, always waiting for her to echo it back. She never does. No morning has been good so far; she doesn’t want to wake up feeling happy.

“Good morning,” she says. Treachery and self-loathing perch on her shoulder to whisper wicked, wondrous things, avid supporters of her treason.

He steals the breath right from her lungs, drinks it straight from her lips. He smiles—the intensity of it should be alarming, but it isn’t, not yet—and peppers her skin with open-mouthed kisses as he makes his way down her body. She yelps when he nips the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.

Rationality flees and she doesn’t want to think about anything; not about blood magic, or poison, or his altar of pride at which he sacrificed her world.

She arches off the bed. Gasps and gasps and gasps some more as his tongue works at her, and such a talented tongue it is, circling, fondling, teasing. Languid, soft licks that threaten to shatter her, but never deliver. He draws away, holds her hips down hard enough to bruise to keep her from bucking, and she feels like she is too hot. She will fall apart, ignite, and then there will be nothing of her left.

She pulls him back toward her and he comes eagerly. He is hard against her belly and she has missed this. Intimacy that amounts to more than desperate groping in the dark. Sloppy, lazy kisses and unspoken understandings. She wriggles beneath him and he likes that, the delicious friction making his eyes cloudy with want. She supposes she must look quite the same, and doesn’t care in the slightest.

She licks his lips clean until he parts them for her, and then she is very much aware that his hand has sneaked into her hair and is using it to keep her still. He coaxes her legs further apart, angles himself, and rolls his hips. She hisses and he laughs.

“It makes me happy when you smile,” Solas says.

It’s hard to talk. She doesn’t know why she bothers with it. “I’m not smiling,” she says.

“Yes,” he says. Moves so very slowly and then quickly, unexpectedly, roughly. “Yes, you are, emma lath.” He swallows her sound of surprise.

Yes, she is.

He barely lets her breathe.

How different he is behind closed doors. He is hers, he is hers, he is hers.

She tries to roll them over, but he tugs at her hair, exposes her throat and marks it with his teeth. Her forehead presses to the headboard while her eyes find the ceiling. The morning is so young, there is barely any light. He is wild, he is in control; he fucks her until she doesn’t recognize the little whimpers tumbling from her lips as being her own.

The wet, obscene sound of it all should not be so delightful.

Suddenly, he goes completely still and the hand holding her hipbone travels to her cheek, cupping it.

“We are going to Antiva,” he says.

She moves her hips, tries rocking back against him until he grunts and uses his full weight to pin her down. He seems very pleased with himself to have her trapped like this, enjoying this game she lets him play. His tongue does a sinful dance around her own as he kisses her until she ceases fussing. There is so much of him and not enough of her.

“Oh,” she says.

“Yes,” he says.

“When will you be back?” she asks.

What horrible thing are you planning again, is what she can’t voice in the wee hours of morning when everything is briefly perfect. She is owed this illusion; she is owed much more, but will only get this.

His mouth maps a path up her jaw line. He whispers into her ear, “We.”

“Oh,” she says again.

She is going to Antiva.

Antiva used to fly the altered Inquisition banner, after she disbanded it and turned the organization into a nameless entity of retribution.

Antiva, or whatever remains of it, still stands.

"What is in Antiva?" she asks.

But then he moves and she stops thinking once again. He gives a few deep thrusts which she struggles—and fails—to meet. It happens too fast and without warning. He pulls away, flips her over, runs a hand down her back and sighs.

“Ar lath ma,” he breathes, and she feels it crash against her skin.

He trails kisses up her spine until he is over her, and the heat of him is unbearable. His fingers twine with hers, clutching at the sheets beneath, and his teeth briefly sink into her shoulder as he takes her again. And she should not encourage it, this nearly senseless, sweaty, urgent passion. This tight grip that he maintains on her as if afraid that she will run—which she should, which she will. Because this war will end, one way or another, and if there won’t be a truce then there shall be animosity.

Further bloodshed.

Either way, she will eventually leave.

She can’t allow him to believe—hope—otherwise. She is small now, in his mind, but before she was big and it's like he's willed himself to forget who she is and what she's capable of along with her very nature.

In the midst of all that he has lost and failed to restore, she is the only thing that, on some level, is still his. The thought is terrifying.

How odd that she used to be the one to suffer from an overabundance of hope.

But right now he is Solas, and in her eyes Solas, no matter how far gone, could always be brought back from the edge. Solas valued freedom, tradition, and life once. Solas assisted healers and helped her on useless, Inquisition-wise, errands. Whether it involved hunting for an old woman’s ring or bringing flowers to a shrine, he’d been there to approve and praise while others groaned at her to keep moving.

That man has to still be in there somewhere; he can’t be just a shell, emptied of all qualities and filled to the brink with hatred. No one can survive on hatred alone.

She comes undone and sees stars. She can’t stop trembling and he soothes her, caresses her sides and nuzzles her hair. He is a little too forceful, then, when he bites the juncture of her neck and shoulder in time with his final thrusts, but she doesn’t stop him. She loves it, but she shouldn’t. It feels too good, and once more it should not.

In the morning, he is not yet Fen’Harel.

And she is gone enough to believe her own pathetic lies.


	15. He Was a General

She expects to find the dragon scale tunic, but instead it is a tailored version of the Sentinel armor that awaits her. She is tempted to take a knife to it.

"No," she tells Solas. She tosses it at him. She will not resemble one of his People, lose herself so entirely to him.

He doesn't even look up from his book. "It is sturdier, vhenan," he says, ever patient.

Bullshit. She lets him know as much.

But he walks away, leaving her to seethe, and eventually she admits defeat. He knows she won't go out in a warring world dressed in spun wool or silk.

"You are giving me a weapon," she says another day, as he is eating.

She makes herself his pestering shadow until he can no longer ignore her. He sighs and sets down his fork. He sounds exasperated. That's good, because she was about to seize his plate and empty it right in his lap.

"Am I?" he muses. "I must have missed the announcement."

"Yes," she says, "you are."

"Very well," he cedes. "Will you sit down now, da'len?"

The veiled accusation isn't lost on her. He hasn't called her thus once since she arrived and, despite her efforts to fight it, embarrassment colors her cheeks scarlet.

The day they leave, she is presented with a simple enough staff. And it's all good and well right come the moment she grips the wrapped base and feels frost creep up her wrist.

She is not ice. She is lightning. She is mediocre at best at this type of magic, and a staff tuned to it will fight her at every turn; it will be unruly and petulant, and she will grow frustrated.

She hates herself then for not bothering with a specialization. The Inquisition brought in the best of the best and she turned her nose up at their knowledge, choosing instead to giggle with Dorian as he made corpses waltz to harass Blackwall. A hobby punctuated by regular interludes of burning turnips with Cole— _naturally_ , because she was _smart_.

A stone fist delivered straight to Solas' face sounds like it would be a beautiful thing—were she capable of it.

"You can't be serious," she says. She growls it.

It seems like there exists some secretive decree which dictates that every nice action of his must be followed by its terrible, or infuriating, counterpart.

He doesn't even require a staff himself. He could have given her Fade-Knocker, if he wanted. She went through such trouble acquiring it for him, even took a nasty tumble after being tackled by a wyvern. But no, it will sit and gather dust and she will be stuck with this stick that is no better than the iron monstrosities Circle apprentices once received upon completing their Harrowing.

"You must understand my need for precautions," Solas says, parting his arms in an act of mock benevolence. "You are a formidable opponent even with your hands empty."

He tries touching her face, but she slaps his wrist away. He can choke on his compliments meant to placate.

He speaks as if she is a child, his tone condescending and indulgent at once, as though talking slower will get her to come around to his way of thinking.

She wants to hurt him, but she also wants to go to Antiva so she just bites her lip until it bleeds as he activates the eluvian.

*

If there is one thing that she didn't expect from Mythal's guardians, it is for them to be amusing.

She doesn't want to say funny, because even thinking such a word in relation to beings so ancient the dirt seems young in comparison feels a little like heresy.

But they are, and she doesn't know if it's because they don't speak Common, or her Elvhen is simply atrocious—or maybe this is Abelas' doing and he told them something about her.

There are too many incidents to count, but the one that has her floored is when she approaches their little gathering as they're passing around steaming mugs.

"Is that tea?" she asks. She's cold and needs something to warm her bones.

All four of them stare at her in such shock as though she isn't just a girl, but a talking bear. Then they start looking around, nearly twisting their necks. They point at the Watch Tower.

"Fen'Harel," the tall one says, adding a nod to the pointing of fingers.

And all she can think is: what is going on, this is beyond absurd, is this really happening. Do they truly believe her sole ambition in life amounts to seeking Solas out? _Tea_ doesn't even remotely sound like _Fen'Harel_ ; her diction can't be that awful.

She blinks at them in confusion and they blink back at her in greater confusion still, and the stilted, awkward silence is too much to bear so Ellana walks away.

It's as sad as it is hilarious.

Solas is a good leader, she supposes, because they're not exactly falling to their knees every time he looks their way as some of the younger elves are prone to do. He exhumes silent authority and they seem to know what he wants before he says it, but they don't appear afraid. If anything, there is admiration in their eyes.

Or perhaps it's just because they are _Elvhen such as he_.

That he can be good to them and so very cruel to the rest of the world revolts her.

They've stopped at one of his outposts to rest, which is ridiculous because with Solas' network of eluvians they could have already been in Antiva.

He's stalling and she doesn't know why. And when she's in the dark, she gets anxious and restless. Hence, the pacing when she should be sleeping.

She gets up at the same time as one of the Sentinels. She goes left and he goes right, and they nearly collide. He brings his hand to his heart in salute and gives her a little bow.

Lavellan quirks an eyebrow.

"No," she says, slowly. Makes a wild gesture with her hand, waving it perhaps a bit too violently in his face. "None of this. Cease it."

She doesn't want their reverence.

"Tas mor," the man says, a friendly smile perched on his thin lips. He points at her armor, at the ties that have been taken all the way in and still hang loosely at her sides. He chuckles softly.

 _Too big_. That, at least, she understands. He doesn't dare to touch her, but very slowly undoes the front of his robes. He is a mage, like her, and their attires are similar. He shows her the fastenings hidden in the inner fabric that can be adjusted at the waist for those slimmer than the norm.

That is kind of him, but she doesn't really care.

"You should retire for the night," Abelas' voice drawls at her back, and the Sentinel vanishes.

"How come you are the only one who speaks Common?" she asks, refusing to face him, forcing him to walk around.

He shrugs. He doesn't respond. It must not be a point of pride for him—being fluent in the shemlen tongue.

"You've scared away my new best friend," she says. "Careful now. I might think you want the position for yourself. I've always had a soft spot for fabulous men with great hair."

"It is warm up there," Abelas says, gaze flickering to the Watch Tower. "The fireplace has been lit for you."

For Solas. The fireplace has been lit for Solas. He might as well be saying go spread your legs and make Fen'Harel happy, be useful for once.

He looks as if he's about to add something else but a sudden, high-pitched squeal has his features contorting into a grimace. A spirit coils around his legs and slithers up his body, giggling madly.

"Accursed creature," he swears, storming off.

The spirit stays, watching his departure before letting out a distressed whine, having lost its prey. It turns to her, all bright reds and pinks. She takes a step back and it gives chase.

She still isn't used to these formless, faceless phantoms wandering the world. They are not Cole, but then again Cole was a singularity. Still, it's deeply unnerving. They're meddling beings; they pursue and don't acknowledge protests.

"What are you?" she says.

"Mischief," the spirit says. "Hi, hi, hi," it snickers, in the fashion of a true dramatic villain.

"Mischief," she repeats, pondering this new, exciting possibility.

Its voice is considerably louder, happier, now that it has been recognized. "Mischief."

"You know what would be very funny?" she says, delighting in the way it hangs onto her every world. "The man who just left, he detests shemlen ballads. Wouldn't it be quite a shame if someone were to serenade him all night?"

This is petty and immature.

She loves it.

"Ooooh," Mischief chants. It sets off after Abelas.

Eventually, she does find herself shuffling her feet up the spiral staircase of the Watch Tower. Because the day is hot and the night is freezing, and such change has always left her weary. She wants to curl up by that fireplace now.

Solas sits in a battered armchair. He smiles when she walks in and sets aside a heap of reports.

"Do you require help with your armor, ma vhenan?" he asks.

Yes.

"No," she says.

He hums, an amused sound rumbling in his chest. He just looks at her while she painstakingly shrugs off the offending attire. She hears him chuckle, but he does not get up to offer assistance, respectful of her rebuttal.

Then, because she's already embarked on a path of total stupidity today, Ellana decides to take it to the next level. Just because she can. Just because if she doesn't do something other than mope then insanity could very well catch up to her.

And, well, she wants to see how far she can push his limits.

"I want Abelas' dracolisk," she says.

"What is this foolish feud between the two of you about?" Solas asks, pinching the bridge of his nose, a habit bordering on the obsessive as of late.

She doesn't answer.

He catches her wrist and attempts to make her stay with him. He kisses her knuckles and she briefly grazes his lips, but the moment doesn't last.

She doesn't miss the brush of his thumb over the angry red mark practically throbbing with magic. He tenses, taut as a bowstring, an edge of fury swirling beneath the mask of cool composure he so adeptly wears.

She resists his invitation with a huff, hopping to the other end of the room on one foot while trying to wrench off her remaining boot. The damned thing is so tightly laced, it's like a second skin.

"You dislike dracolisks," he continues, chin resting leisurely on a weakly-formed fist. "As you've told me countless times, and this I do feel the necessity to quote, 'they are too bony and make your—'" Of course he would remember.

She scoffs, "I know what I've said. You don't have to cite the whole thing back to me."

He smiles, eyes crinkling with mirth. He's always enjoyed teasing her. "You are not getting Abelas' mount," he decides, finality seeping into his tone. "You shall ride with me."

She hates how casual he is. As if he isn't leading a small—too small—army to a nation's doorstep. A nation that's already been decimated after the Veil burned, and needs no further chaos. Just like Orlais, just like Nevarra. He is a force of nature in his own right, her mind is quick to remind her, and doesn't always require great legions.

He could turn people to stone with only a sliver of Mythal's essence. But he's taken something else, stole a foci or reclaimed a part of himself once lost to uthenera to tear down the Veil. And now he's working on that barrier she is supposed to be ignorant of, though he's done nothing about it yet and his abrupt choice to drag the matter out is disturbing.

And she feels sick once again.

He is anything but the picture of danger while he lounges like this, legs crossed, head tilted and eyes red-rimmed from strain. The firelight makes him look old, something she's failed to notice before. He always seemed so ageless in the past.

She blurts it out.

"I am very old by your standards, yes," is all he says, conceding to her point but not elaborating upon it.

"Pervert," she says.

This time around he's the one who doesn't answer. He averts his gaze.

"Why Antiva?" she asks. "What have you misplaced in Antiva, Solas?"

He folds his hands in his lap. Leans back into the armchair and pins her with a stare. Unfamiliar. Calculating. He seems to be deliberating whether to oblige her curiosity or dismiss it.

"I neither care for nor want Antiva," he says, at last. "It is a land where merchant princes grew fat mostly from foreign imports. It holds no cultural relevance—did not possess any even when it bore another name—and has no history to salvage or resources to cultivate, other than luxuries which I need not. I have no use for a dead trading capital."

It's when his speech slips into this scholarly pattern that she is made aware of the gap between them—in years, in knowledge, in education and customs. He is truly ancient.

Solas had been a general once, she recalls with a twinge of fear. He commanded armies far worthier, fiercer, in a world dominated by egotistical, immortal rulers long before she was born—before the stars were aligned the way she knows them.

"Would you like for me to add a log to the fire?" his accented voice breaks her contemplation.

Her answer comes a little too late, betraying her disordered train of thought and triggering Solas' interest. He watches her very intently.

"Do what you want," she says.

She takes off her under-shirt to have his concentration go elsewhere. She doesn't want him trying to read her.

His experience thwarts hers. She's only ever played pretend at war, hiding behind her advisors' backs, stabbing the map with toy silverite swords. Occasionally, setting off on quests of her own, but always supervised by others. Appearing before her supporters on the eve of a mission to up the morale; it had felt like a huge responsibility, but she understands now the true burden had fallen to Cullen and his officers.

She remembers that and feels inadequate and tiny. Away from friends and allies, away from those who once called her Herald and vied for her favor, she is reminded that in the end she is no more than the product of happenstance.

It is very humbling, though she's never been one for delusions of grandeur. Solas suddenly seems intimidating in a whole new way.

Her voice is strangled for it.

She whispers. She doesn't want to, but she does. So much for being unwavering. "What _do_ you have a use for?"

"The Antivan fleet," he says, calmly. "Let us rest, it is late."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got out of hand.


	16. Shit's Weird, Varric Said

This isn’t the Fade, but perhaps it is a pocket of it. It is chaotic. She has never experienced such raw terror. She feels like she will crawl out of her skin at any moment now. It’s a blend of harsh colors, loud noises, and distressed voices. Dorian, she thinks she hears Dorian and perhaps Feynriel, and then the tone is softer, the voice higher, and it must be Solas but she sees nothing.

None of them are really here. Neither is she.

It’s not the piercing morning light which wakes her, but rising anxiety. Blood magic tampers with one’s connection to the Fade, she remembers and feels the mark burn as if in response. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just there, doing a better job at coexisting than Abelas ever could.

And then she sees Solas.

And he looks so very, very, very sad that it’s unsettling. He doesn’t know she’s awake and doesn’t bother with wearing a mask. He sits in that awful armchair, wringing his hands and staring at his feet. His fingertips are smudged with charcoal. When he does notice her stirring, he crosses the room in two strides. He touches her face, tries to lean down to greet her with a kiss, but she turns away and rolls out of bed on the opposite side.

She uses a pillow to wipe the dark smudge off her cheek.

“Ir abelas,” he says, before anything else.

“For what?” she asks. A charcoal stain doesn’t warrant such a serious tone.

Anxiety decides to stay, settling in her stomach.

He isn't this on edge because he got her face dirty. His smile is the ugliest thing she’s seen in years, so forced it is.

“Many things demand an apology,” he says. “Matters of the past and future alike. I am sorry.”

Thank you for being so vague, she thinks. He would probably disregard the remark if she were to voice it.

“A little too late,” she says. “You don’t get to ask forgiveness if you don’t regret your actions. That’s hypocritical. Don’t try making yourself a saint—no one will absolve you.”

Solas nods. Once. He doesn’t go off on a tirade. “I deserve that, no doubt,” he agrees.

“Oh, so there is a little doubt?” she quips. “Yes, I forgive you for stepping into my bowl of carrot stew that day in Crestwood. Unless you meant destroying the world, wiping out entire nations and starting a war—because in that case, no, I don’t.”

He closes his eyes. Waves his hand in an appeasing gesture. “Vhenan, sathan.”

She gets out of bed. Trails her fingers through her knotted hair. “I am not having a philosophical debate with you. Not now, not ever.”

This is weird, she thinks. Beyond weird. Past the territory of the bizarre and disturbing. Solas has always been a composed man, but at present it seems like the wind has been taken out of his sails. He is adrift in the oddest of ways. Such a stark contrast with just the previous night.

She is not reassured when he helps her gather the pieces of her armor discarded throughout the room.

Then she sees the crumpled piece of parchment left on the slashed cushion of the armchair and gravitates toward it.

It’s a rough charcoal sketch in the same style as the frescoes at Skyhold.

“Ah, yes,” Solas says. He comes behind her and she feels his breath on her ear. “It is nothing. Simply an early draft.”

“Of what?” she asks.

“Mythal’s temple has fallen into decay,” he says. “I wish to restore it. But the plaster is old and has chipped off, the gems fell out, and there are but outlines remaining. I cannot recreate what once was”—she snorts at the irony, but he ignores her—“however I can start a new chapter of history.”

“That’s a pretty way of saying you want to stroke your ego,” she says. “Will there be a self-portrait?”

“Perhaps I could include yours,” he says. He smiles _again_ and it is ugly _again_. “You would look very lovely.”

“Don’t forget to add the missing arm while you’re at it,” she says, and delights at his wincing. “What is it titled?”

She feels his arms slip around her waist as he rests his chin on her shoulder. He smells a little of sweat, but it’s not unpleasant. Familiar, if anything. She doesn't want to think of the past.

“I do not usually name my compositions,” he admits. “But now that you are here perhaps you could help me. What would you call it?”

She makes a genuine display of taking in the harsh charcoal strokes. Examines with feigned, intense interest the depiction of the great and glorious Elvhen as they extend a helping hand to their naive brethren of the modern age.

“The Rape of the Dalish,” she decides.

Solas chokes on his next breath. “Perhaps,” he begins, struggles for words, can’t find the right ones and begins anew. “Perhaps we’ll continue thinking on it.”

“The Vicious Rape of the Dalish,” she says. “I think that would convey the meaning even better.” She elbows him in the ribs, not violently but hard enough so he releases her. “Get out. I need to dress.”

He forgets his sketch and she tears it to tiny pieces.

Her anxiety continues rising when, once outside, Solas meets her holding the reins to Abelas’ dracolisk. The rest of his force is already on the move, with the exception of those staying to guard the outpost. The creature glares at her with angry amber eyes, clawing at the earth with its hoof-paw.

She is positive it will bite her.

She decides it's worth all of the risks upon spotting Abelas as he unhappily shuffles toward a shabby-looking horse in the distance.

She expects Solas to put her behind him, but he makes her sit in the front. For a brief second—so brief Ellana thinks it’s her tired mind or some trick of light or maybe it’s the beast’s fault—his hands shake uncontrollably, but he steadies them by seizing the reins tighter.

“What are you doing?” she asks, not bothering with the effort of concealing the venomous suspicion in her tone.

“I am not doing anything, vhenan,” he says. He spurs the animal forth with a gentle kick of his heels. “You said you wanted the dracolisk.”

“And you said I wouldn’t get it,” she points out.

“I don’t want to keep denying you,” he says. “It wasn’t an unreasonable request. I reconsidered.”

Lies.

But then she stops thinking about it, or at least stores it at the very back of her mind, because obsessing over it will drive her crazy. The outpost disappears behind them once they’re out of the cloaking spell range; she feels a little dizzy once the magic washes over her.

Solas keeps a safe distance away from his Sentinels. He’s not leading. They know where to go. He has one arm around her middle and the other pointing at the sights around them. He allows her to hold the reins—and isn’t that so very generous of him. She doubts the animal would listen to her even if she yelled or hit it with a hot rod; it’s a very nasty sheep following its flock.

“There was a pilgrimage route here once,” Solas says. “The trail went through the mountains and the devout had to seek refuge in caves. Faith in Andraste was still new, back then, but already so very potent. They would bloody their feet trying to reach the wooden sculptures said to have been blessed by her closest followers.”

She couldn’t care less for his history lesson. He is hiding something, and is doing an awful job at it.

Abelas falls into step with them, the picture of exhaustion. He slouches, stifles an occasional yawn, and the puffy dark circles beneath his eyes look as if painted on. She grins a glorious grin. He and Solas exchange a casual nod.

He goes to slip into Elvhen, but behind her she senses Solas give a stern shake of his head so Abelas relents, although begrudgingly. How kind.

“Inquisitor,” he greets her.

“Asshole,” she greets him back.

She is tempted to make a snide remark about the bright red scarf he wears, but then said scarf _shifts_. It moves, pulling itself tighter around his form, embracing him from an odd angle—and she realizes it’s not a scarf at all but Mischief.

The laugh that escapes her is as loud and ugly as Solas’ fake smiles. Unrestrained. She feels a little wild.

“Ooooh,” Mischief singsongs, recognizing her. “Hellooo.”

“Hello, you beautiful thing,” she sputters, unable to wipe the smirk off her face.

“I cannot get it to leave,” Abelas says through gritted teeth, turning to Solas. “If you would?”

She feels his breath, a soft exhale as it tickles the back of her neck, and beats him to it.

“Don’t you dare,” she says. “I love it.”

And when Solas deflates and merely says in a too-light voice, “It is harmless, I’m sure,” she knows for certain that something is indeed terribly wrong. He is being too accommodating, going so far as allowing his second in command to suffer at the hands of a naughty spirit all so she may find amusement.

She tenses. He rubs her arm, and she tenses even more.

Mischief has by now claimed Abelas as its own. It is inches from his face, pulling back his hood at every opportunity and messing up his neatly braided hair.

And then it begins to sing.

“Bright silver were his helm and chain, bright silver on his horse’s rein,” Mischief belts out with such power that if it had lungs, they would have already popped. It slips between registers; here a tenor, there a bass, and at times something like a shrieking cat.

“Do you take requests, falon?” Solas asks. He tightens his grip on her waist to get her attention; he is trying to make her laugh but this pretense doesn’t suit him. He sounds awkward, unnatural. “Perhaps, Empress of Fire?”

“He met them on the golden field, the fate of elvenkind now sealed,” Mischief finishes. It takes a moment to maul over Solas’ proposal, briefly floating toward him. Then just says, “Nah.”

It goes back to pestering Abelas.

They are treated to a very passionate but tone-deaf rendition of Andraste’s Mabari right until it is time to stop.

He thinks she doesn’t see him talking Mischief into leaving once they pause to make camp, but she does and it sours her mood. The stupid, little spirit was the only good thing in her life and now it is gone. She cannot quell the budding disquiet which, at this point, is like an illness. Food refuses to stay down and she only manages to hold on to a few gulps of water.

It subsides somewhat after she wanders by a group of Sentinels playing what must be a variant of poker. She stays a moment too long and helps one of them cheat. After which they’re dealing her in, laughing, patting her on the back.

But of course even that doesn’t last because Solas chooses to interrupt.

“Maybe I should join you,” he says. He tries to sound casual. He tries and fails. “I was quite decent at Diamondback, if you recall.”

She feels her left eye begin to twitch.

“Get lost,” she says.

He declines her counteroffer.

It's not even like he's playing, she thinks with spite.

He just holds up the cards for her as she doesn't exactly have two hands to use now, and provides an occasional suggestion as to how to outmaneuver the others. And the game ends abruptly because as much as his men aren’t terrified of him, they still will not give him anything less than a victory. Even if it’s only in cards.

"I can't look at you right now," she says, fighting against the urge to hit him in front of the entire camp.

"I have treated you very poorly," he says, and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear.

And there it is again—that sadness she can't pinpoint, but which seems to be devouring him. He doesn't get to be sad; not this abruptly, not this quickly, not at all.

"Yes," she says, "yes, you have."

His face falls. He stays mercifully silent while she stares at the horizon where Antiva's half-demolished towers of marble still reach for the skies.


	17. There Are No Nugs in Antiva

She doesn't quite know what to make of this.

It's not yet morning—too dark, too quiet, too peaceful like some kind of limbo—but neither of them are sleeping. Solas is on his side, away from her.

She touches his back and he rolls to face her.

"Don't kill them," she says. Whispers. She doesn't want to beg him—this shouldn't be a begging matter, life.

His next breath stutters for it. "I do not want to," he says.

"Then don't," she says. It's this simple, it really is. "You don't even want Antiva."

"I only need its fleet," he agrees. "Or the remnants of it. It is still a great force."

Antiva's maritime strength once held back the Qunari in the Exalted Marches, she remembers her history lessons with Josephine. Lavellan shudders. She doesn't want to know what exactly he plans on doing with it.

In the darkness, he reaches to touch her face and when she doesn't glower or throw a nasty remark his way, he seems surprised.

"Perhaps," he begins, but cuts himself off. He exhales and tries again. "The Inquisition banner still flies high on their walls. If you go to them, they will listen."

"Yes," she murmurs.

"Convince them to leave," he says. "I want the city empty."

It is unlikely. Close to improbable. But he is listening, looking for ways out that don't involve bloodshed.

She pulls him toward her and their kiss is soft, a memory of days spent in ignorance. She hooks a leg around his waist and he moves against her, shallow breaths caught and muffled by her mouth.

She doesn't know why she wants him. Maybe because he's being as kind as he can afford to be. Maybe because he spent the last day trying to make her laugh, however odd and alarming that was. It shouldn't be like this. She shouldn't feel close to him only when he concedes to her requests for relative peace.

But she does, and it's pathetic and sad and she's a little disgusted with herself.

She wants to think there will be more of these moments when he relents and listens.

So she caresses his back and kisses his face when he shifts his weight atop her. It's unbearably sweet, something she thought would never be theirs again.

The night is cold, but the tent is made from a thicker material than any of those they stayed in before. She doesn't shiver when he slips a hand beneath the waistband of her leggings and tugs them down and over her hips. He kisses her so hard she misses the exact moment he readjusts her stance, fingers stroking her legs in silent encouragement to wrap around him, and takes her.

He moves so very slowly, barely contained gasps wafting against the hollow of her throat. He struggles to be quiet and she wants to be quiet too, because this instant is theirs. She will not share it; there might not be another.

And this is so very graceless—her leggings caught over one ankle and sweaty hair plastered to her forehead—but she loves it more than leisurely mornings.

This shouldn't be all they have left.

She doesn't want to think about it.

She can still taste the wine his soldiers served him after he joined them for cards. It's right there, on his lips, the flavor spilling onto her tongue as she nibbles on them. Gentle nips because she doesn't want to be breathing too hard, but needs to do _something_ and his mouth is a hairbreadth from hers.

When she finally comes, legs trembling from strain and throat raw and burning from suppressed panting, he slides down to rest his cheek against her collarbone. His hands wander aimlessly, caressing every inch of her he can reach.

"I wish I did not have to go." His whisper, warm and moist and intimate as it laps at her skin, is the most sincere thing he's given her in years.

She doesn't answer.

She doesn't want to go to Antiva either, now that he's said it.

She feels cold.

*

The intermediary from the city arrives on the biggest horse she's ever seen. He is dwarfed in comparison, but finds amusement in it. He is an elf, but his tattoos aren't Dalish.

He's here to take her to the leaders of the city. Solas' message reached them very quickly indeed. They don't want him any closer than necessary.

He makes his horse walk circles around Solas and Abelas who look more than ready to shove him off it.

"Ah, I am sorry," the man says, not hiding his smirk. "He's a free spirit. Now, now boy, you're supposed to be afraid of the Big Bad Dread Wolf."

"Are you quite done?" Solas asks.

"Almost," he says, and pulls a bouquet of pink hyacinths from behind his back. "As welcoming traditions go, one must present the fairest of them all with a proper gift."

He steers the horse her way and flashes the widest grin she's ever seen. His teeth are pearly white and perfect; he is beautiful in every way with his golden skin and charming accent. He even leans down to offer her the flowers, but then abruptly changes course.

"The fairest of them all," he repeats, and presents the bouquet to Abelas.

Abelas leaves.

He just leaves.

He turns around and walks away.

"Do wait, darling Dread Wolf," the man calls after him. "The Crows send their regards. Who am I supposed to talk to now?"

Ellana clears her throat. She can't stop smiling. She points at a scowling Solas.

"Oh," he says, unimpressed. "Well, then. I am Zevran—"

"I don't care who you are," Solas interrupts him. "Take the Inquisitor and leave. Abuse my trust and watch your city burn."

It's disconcerting—terrifying—how easy he lets her go with him. He has nothing to fear. He knows she won't run and doesn't spare her a second glance. Even if the seed of an idea was once there—and oh yes, yes indeed it had been—that resolve to flee got crushed the moment he mentioned razing the city.

Her spine goes rigid. She is angry all over again. Her hand balls into a fist.

Solas follows Abelas into whatever hole the latter disappeared into. They can stay there forever, as far as she's concerned.

Fuck you both, she thinks.

Zevran offers her a hand which she grasps eagerly, and hauls her up behind him. He is surprisingly strong for one so lean.

He winks at her, twisting his neck. _Winks_. He doesn't even know her, but does it anyway.

"Do you think he likes me?" he says, voice rising so it carries throughout the camp. "I do hope he does. Those calves were really impressive, yes? Perhaps next time I shall bring roses."

She wraps her arm around his waist. He is slim, easy to hold on to. Not like Solas and his ridiculous armor, all hard plains and sharp edges. The ridiculous armor she wears too, a thought that dampens her mood. She wishes there was a way to erase all traces of him from it, make it unrecognizable. Scratch off the paint, scribble over the emblems until it's an indistinguishable mess.

"The Dread Wolf is certainly dreadful," Zevran says, after a while.

She huffs. "He's dreadful all right," she says, peeved. "He goes to bed sinfully early, eats pastries in the morning if he thinks no one's watching, and snorts while laughing."

Zevran gives a soft chuckle. He doesn't push her. He recognizes her bad humor for what it is—a coping mechanism.

"Realistically speaking," she says, "what are the chances I'll be able to leave the city without him getting to me first?"

"Considering the tunnels beneath our fair Antiva caved in and the only other way out, with the exception of the main gates, is through water, I would say not spectacular," Zevran says, rolling his shoulders. "Even if I were to lend you Potato"—he gives the giant horse a gentle pat on the nape—"you wouldn't make it far. Very exposed area, you see. Barely any trees left."

"Amazing," she snarls.

Beneath them, Potato grunts. Then sneezes. Then grunts once more for good measure. He sounds less than thrilled with his master suggesting he be given to some weird girl who can't even hold the reins properly.

"I do love nugs," Zevran says, suddenly.

He sounds too excited. She frowns. "Good for you?"

Zevran squeezes her hand where it rests over his stomach. "No, I really, really do love those precious little creatures, Inquisitor," he insists. "What about you?"

She tenses. "They're fine."

"Would you like to know which nugs I love in particular?" he asks.

She's yet to hear nugs and love mentioned in the same sentence so often. There must be a medal waiting for him somewhere.

"The roasted kind?" she says.

Zevran tsks. "How pedestrian. I expected more of you."

"Yes, well, so did I. We're both fated to disappointment."

The gates of the city come into view, but they still have a way to go. Zevran refuses to drop the matter, and she idly stares at the occasional patrol walking by. They stare at her and she stares at them.

Zevran's grip on her wrist tampers with her blood circulation.

"There are two nugs that are very dear to my heart," he says. His voice is too light. He is too happy.

"What are you going on about?" she asks, eyes narrowing to tiny slits.

This isn't about nugs.

"One is named Schmooples, the other Boulette, and both belong to a beloved friend with fiery red hair," he says.

She feels all breath being whisked out of her lungs. Her hand is shaking so hard, Zevran has to grip and steady it himself.

Leliana.

Leliana and her ugly, adorable pets Dorian absolutely detested who would follow him around Skyhold, barging in whenever he indulged in a bath and causing a scene.

Leliana who became a shadow after too many imposters slipped into her ranks and the Inquisition got disbanded. Leliana whose existence was a mystery of its own, the occasional raven with encrypted information being the only sign of her presence in this world.

This is Leliana's man and he is holding her hand.

"You still have friends, Inquisitor," Zevran says, softly, voice devoid of any previous mockery. "Nug friends, of course," he adds, louder, in case someone happens by. "Nugs are said to be very intelligent despite looking a little like inbred pigs, if you ask me."

Ellana starts laughing. She is not alone, but still trembles.

"Yes," she says, "I quite like nugs myself."


	18. Let It Burn

She doesn't like Antiva.

Antiva doesn't like her either, so it works out quite well in the end.

It is a mess. Rubble litters the streets, once grandiose monuments fallen to dust, landmarks completely destroyed. Zevran needs to hop off Potato to lead him around.

Of the vhenadahl nothing remains but a stump. She doesn't know why the sight affects her so, but she can't stop staring. It is a parallel to what Solas is doing, in a way. Burning everything down and erecting nothing in its place but promises and wishes.

She expects to see Leliana, but she isn't here.

She expects to find help, but Zevran is alone.

"I ought to warn you," he says. "The, ah, administration, shall we say, of the city is not what you might expect from your correspondence before all of this"—he does a great, swooping gesture to showcase the desolation—"came to happen."

She doesn't like this.

She likes it even less when instead of pompous nobles Zevran presents her to equally pompous assassins. They glower at him and he grins back, dancing on the blade's edge.

"We parted on bad terms," he explains, a whisper for her alone. "They don't want me here, but right now feelings hardly matter with the villain from ancient mythology at our doorstep and all."

"Inquisitor," a tall man in rich silks that have seen better days greets her. "I am Claudio Valisti, the one your Ambassador has been corresponding with. I have ordered your banner be kept up throughout all of this. The Inquisition would not abandon its allies, is that not so?" he asks, and the way he does it sends ice ambling through her veins.

It's a very pretty threat wrapped with a beautiful, smothering ribbon.

She is tired of being threatened.

She has nothing to give him. Nothing but the advice to run. And he looks at her so expectantly that she feels backed into a corner. Which she is. In so many ways.

"I am not the Inquisitor anymore," Ellana says. "Not truly."

"Send for troupes," he says regardless, hand going to the hilt of his sword.

"Oh, I can send for Elvhen troupes but I doubt you'd like that." It comes out harsher than expected, and it shouldn't have. These people, merchant princes and assassins alike, fought for her on many fronts. They shouldn't be snarling at each other like rabid animals. "Leave the city," she says, calmer this time. "You won't be harmed. That's all I managed to get for you."

You have no choice and neither do I, a grim thought she could never admit out loud.

The man sneers. He is very desperate and that makes him very dangerous.

"What are you then?" he muses. "A puppet?"

"Actually, yes," she says. "Or the personification of a gesture of goodwill. I'll take either title."

Not that Solas is capable of any kind of generosity anymore if it does not pertain to his oh so glorious vision, but that doesn't need to be voiced.

His lips curve into a frightening smile as he leans against the wall, his countenance bleeding false nonchalance.

"Or a traitor," he suggests, rolling one shoulder.

That strikes a nerve. Ellana feels the fury usually begrudgingly suppressed in Solas' company rush to the surface. The edges of her vision go red. Her hand curls tighter around her useless, horrible staff. She won't do much damage with it—but certainly some.

Well, she's never been much of a diplomat. Much to everyone's chagrin.

Zevran's hand finds the small of her back. He steps between the two of them.

"My good man," he says, his tone light, high, airy. His own fingers slip beneath his tunic to grasp a hidden dagger. "Are you an idiot?" Zevran finishes, still smiling. "You are besieged and yet she is the true prisoner. She fought to come warn you."

She deflates somewhat.

"Leave the city," she repeats. "I am sorry, I am so sorry but I have nothing to offer. I don't want people to die because he wants a handful of boats."

"The harbor?" Valisti all but hisses, eyes going wide. "He wants that _wreck_? Tell him he's welcome to it, but we are not abandoning our homes."

Zevran clears his throat. He appears fascinated with the curve of his nails. "I believe the exact words were 'abuse my trust and watch your city burn,'" he says, coolly. "I do not wish to burn today. Nor tomorrow. What of you?"

"Please leave," she whispers. She feels so small, frayed at the edges. Alone. "I—I'll mark the locations of safe houses on your map. There are strongholds, refuges, we furnished in case—in case—"

She can't finish. Defeat has come and gone, but she still doesn't want to acknowledge it.

A scout slips into the room. He wears the face of one utterly terrified as he relates his findings. It's what seems to undo the proud Talon. He drags a hand over his face, dismissing the youngster with the other.

"Fine," he says—barks. "Pass the word around," meant for his men. What is meant for her, however indirectly, is said with more than a generous serving of spite. "Take down the Inquisition banner. Burn it."

They are nearly thrown out the instant she finishes scribbling, circling, underlining the massive map.

Ellana presses her back to a cracked wall. The sun is high in the sky, marking midday. She doesn't want to go back.

This doesn't feel like a victory. It tastes like ash.

Potato grumbles when she tries to pet him. She wants to cuddle the great animal, burrow close to his warmth, but he won't let her. She wonders if his affection can be bought with a carrot. A carrot she doesn't have.

Zevran is gone for a little while, and when he comes back there is a crow digging its talons into his forearm. He coos at the animal, ruffling its feathers and feeding it seeds.

"I am going to do something very stupid, yes I am," he croons. "And you will tell Leliana all about it, yes you will."

"Caw, caw, caw," the crow agrees and proceeds to painfully jab his beak into Zevran's palm, looking for more treats.

At least the bird is a conversationalist.

"Stop manhandling the crow," she sighs.

"But he likes it," Zevran argues, feigning sorrow.

"Where is Leliana?" she asks.

Zevran shrugs. He releases the bird. "I couldn't say."

If possible, she feels even more bitter. Empty. She watches the Inquisition standard being lowered from the ramparts. Her eyes fall the second a flaming torch is taken to it.

"She could be in the Deep Roads, for all I know," Zevran continues. "Her reach is still quite wide, however. It is best she remains a ghost." He briefly skims his knuckles over her jaw, seeking her attention. "Look," he says, softly.

The Alienage, previously empty, slowly fills up. Elves, barefaced and marked alike, emerge from their homes. None look afraid. She hears Solas' name—his moniker, as far as she's concerned—being uttered here and there.

"They will flock to him," Zevran mutters, and he sounds every bit as unhappy as she looks. "There was talk even before he arrived. Many left months prior."

And Solas will play the benevolent redeemer, stripping their faces of vallaslin and offering all a place among his ranks. How kind. How generous.

"You mentioned something about being stupid?" she says, desperately needing the conversation to shift to a different topic.

Zevran huffs. He waggles his eyebrows at her. "You're looking at it," he says.

"What?" she says, twisting her neck to gaze around.

"He's all about that Elvhen Glory, yes? That's pretty much all he asks of those who follow him. How hard can it be?" Zevran thrusts his chest forward, one hand over his heart. "I pledge to fornicate with elves and only elves for the rest of my immortal life. There. I qualify most splendidly."

The laugh that escapes her is so loud she has to clamp a hand over her mouth.

"He already saw you. He'll figure out you're full of shit," she says in between two giggles before exploding into another fit.

He is good for her sanity, this odd man who managed to hold on to his obscene sense of humor and ridiculous charm despite the world coming to a not-quite-literal end.

"Or he won't," Zevran says. "Let's say I've had a change of heart. Besides, it's for a good cause."

"Which is?"

"I really, really want to get those tight pants off that brooding elf. The one with the long hair, not the Dread Wolf, mind you. Ew. Come, Potato, let's get the Inquisitor back."

This is going to fail.

Beautifully so.

She doesn't want to stop him so she doesn't.

*

Antiva crumbles.

Solas doesn't want her to look, but she does. She stares until her vision is blurry with tears. Only then does she blink. This isn't a minor town, it stretches out on the horizon, golden and oddly beautiful despite everything. But it still goes down like a house of cards.

She shakes from fury, but the civilians are gone, the assassins are gone, everyone is gone and no one is dead. There is no point for her to argue. It would all fall on deaf ears and the damage has already been done.

Solas has always possessed an unparalleled talent for choosing his words.

He never promised to leave the city standing.

"It is all right," he says. "All is well now. We don't need to return."

He holds her much too tightly, the arm around her waist compressing her diaphragm and limiting her intake of breath. But his hands don't shake anymore even if he does look over his shoulder—too often for comfort—at the ruins of a once great capital.

She wants Zevran and Potato. She wants what they represent, but they are nowhere to be found. Solas leaves ahead with a small group, his main force remaining stationed behind. It doesn't make sense, but she is too exhausted to figure it out. Perhaps later.

She hates this perpetually angry beast of a dracolisk he insists on keeping because he thinks she actually wants it, just as she loathes his Elvhen armor the sharp edges of which dig uncomfortably into her back. She took off hers long ago, tossing what passed for a breastplate and keeping only the greaves.

He doesn't let her hold the reins.

"What are you looking at?" she finally snaps, when his fidgeting succeeds in shredding her last ounce of patience.

"Nothing at all," Solas says, voice so quiet, so composed. "It is done. We don't need to return."

"It's the second time you've said it," she says, and tenses.

"We will put this behind us," he says. It is not a suggestion.

She ignores his attempts at casual conversation until they reach the nearest eluvian.

There's no sign of Zevran, no sign of Potato, and now no sign of Antiva. Quite literally. She feels alone, despite Solas' hand nearly fracturing her ribs where he holds her.


	19. Charcoal Strokes

It’s a change of pace, if anything, but she is still uneasy. She knows how to handle his anger and disinterest, but not utter passivity. This may well be another facade he puts up to keep her in the dark.

She wants to see him crack, but in the end she is always the one who splinters first. A vicious circle she can’t seem to avoid. He has too much patience, an infinite supply of will, and she none of those things.

“How very Dalish,” Solas comments when she strides into his study. He doesn’t look up, just keeps writing—no, sketching. Spiraling towers of silver and monuments from another age.

She glances down at her bare feet, devoid of even the simplest of wrappings, and back at him.

“Ah, there it is,” she says. “The superiority. How very Elvhen.”

He barks a laugh at that, one meant to be suppressed but which escapes nonetheless.

“Rebuilding while war rages?” she asks, walking around his massive desk to sneak a peek. “Seems a little counterproductive.”

“Are you bored, vhenan?” he asks patiently, fingers curling around a new stick of charcoal. He doesn’t bother hiding his smile. “Come sit with me.”

“Very. And this”—Ellana waves a hand before his face, obstructing his view of the sketch—“is ridiculous. Whatever territory you’ve assigned to this little pet project of yours doesn’t belong to you.”

“It was part of Elvhenan,” he says.

“Elvhenan fell for a reason,” she says. “You people had your time.”

“I am still here.”

“You are a relic. You don’t really qualify,” she counters. “It’s like saying Denerim is mine because I bought a plum at a market there once twenty-five years ago.”

“You are not making any sense,” he says, sounding amused and humoring her. "You were not born back then."

Then her attention is drawn away by a book that pertains to anything but the ancient elves and their colossal egos. She recognizes the design of the hard leather spine incrusted with decorative gems. Tevinter through and through. Elegant in all matters.

Lightning shocks her hand the second she reaches for it.

“That was a useful trick,” Solas says. He leans back, dirty hands folded in his lap. “I am rather fond of it, now. Thank you for introducing me to it.”

She tries again. He shocks her again.

“Don’t rummage through my things, vhenan,” he says, and this time his tone has lost all its playfulness. He doesn’t scowl, but this is a warning.

She is not having this debate over and over.

She is not.

“Stop researching blood magic,” she says. “You are not taking the mark. It is mine.”

Well, she has been wrong before.

“It is dangerous,” he counters.

“Mine,” she repeats.

“This is not up for discussion,” he says, retrieving the tome so it is effectively out of her reach. “Our enemies—“

No. Creators, no. She’ll have none of this. He will not drag her down to his level by association alone.

There is him and there is her; they’ve ceased being a united front long ago. She sought to stop him first and destroy him when that failed. He slaughtered her men and she responded in kind, as good war etiquette demands.

She is the enemy, and he keeps deluding himself into believing otherwise. Or perhaps wants her to forget.

“Your enemies.” Acid practically drips from her tongue. “But my people.”

“And yours,” he insists, undeterred. “Ir abelas, ma sa’lath. I saw them burn your banner.”

She is tired of having nothing but anger left to give.

She should snap at him, yell perhaps, but he would call her a child. Of that she is exhausted as well.

Ellana lowers herself onto his desk, legs dangling from the edge, and stares at the window. The glass mosaic of greens and blues gives the world an ethereal glow. Tinted just so—the sky cerulean and the grass a soft purple—it does not look like the world she lost or the one he raised from the ashes. It’s enough to get lost in.

His thumb strokes the back of her hand. His touch shouldn’t be comforting, but it is.

“Must we have this hostility between us?” he asks. “Can we not be civil?”

No.

She opens her mouth but forgets to answer.

And that seems to inspire something new in him because the look in his eyes makes her want to crawl into a hole.

He looked at her like that the day before they reached Antiva. Unreadable, but saddened. As if he has any right to feel burdened.

“I must attend to this,” Solas says. His hand leaves hers to take possession of the report Abelas brought him earlier. It is thicker than the others, the penmanship messy and hurried.

And she knows that look too. He will bolt. He will set off on whatever destructive errand he feels must be carried out. And he might return with his robes soaked with blood, or she will witness another city fall to dust in the distance.

“Stay,” she says. “Whatever this is, it can wait. Stay.”

She sounds a little desperate, a little stupid. She can’t stop him, but can at least try delaying him.

It can wait a millennium. This entire folly of his can crumble and rot.

She can almost hear the gears of his mind rotating, spinning, and rearranging the details of his plan.

“Yes,” he breathes. “For now, I can stay.”

She bites her lip and tastes copper. “Good.”

“Let me take you someplace,” he says.

*

She didn’t think it would be Skyhold.

But this is not her Skyhold anymore, it is his. Redesigned and reassembled. Like a doll taken apart and put back together by a new master. The sheer amount of spells guarding it is such that it feels like a tidal wave of power crushes against her once she steps past the threshold. She is more than a little dizzy, and his assistance is needed to keep her knees from folding.

He smiles, but it is frightening. She doesn’t want to know how much energy he can pull out of the Fade now that the Veil is down.

“It was mine, once,” he says quietly, eyes surveying the grand hall.

“I see you’ve reclaimed it,” she says.

“Indeed,” he agrees, and his smile is wistful, the look in his eyes faraway.

This is not the Skyhold she remembers. Gone is the wayward arrangement of styles. The Andrastian throne she found so alluring has been dismantled, its bright flame forever extinguished; the ceiling-high windows in the fashion of Orlais shattered and replaced with a patchwork of tinted glass; the drapes torn down in favor of deep greens and golds like the grass and morning sun of the Dales.

Nothing of hers remains.

Then again, it was never truly hers. Yet another one of his self-serving gifts.

But Solas’ murals are still here, and she can’t decide if it is idolizing and sick or a way for his melancholy to come through, however inadvertently. They don’t fit, but neither does she, the central subject, the hero of the tale he painted but never finished. It is oddly fitting.

Perhaps the last section of the wall ought to remain empty.

*

It’s a pleasant sort of haze.

She holds his hand and says, “There were refugees near Crestwood. Send your troupes around, change the itinerary. They are innocents.”

Graves haven’t even been dug yet, for so many. No one needs additional chaos.

He stares at her as if her words are more than just that. It’s almost uncomfortable. He nods, again and again, as if trying to smother some horrible voice within that is constantly at war with his thoughts.

“Yes,” he says. “You are right.”

“In Antiva—” she begins.

“We will not speak of Antiva,” he interrupts her. “It was unfortunate, but it has passed.”

His thumb swipes over her lower lip and she speaks no more of the golden capital or its sad fate. Her silence placates him. He breathes—the sound is painful—and looks right past her. He is lost to her again then, but the order is given, his men retreat, and as far as she can tell no blood has been spilled.

She doesn’t want to leave Skyhold.

He is different here.

He shows her how to mix plaster and add pigment. He talks of the specifics of making frescoes, and she sits while he maps out the wall. The outline to be filled isn’t something she recognizes. It is abstract, chaotic. It makes little sense, but perhaps that will change once color is added.

She hopes.

This is the face he should always wear. She wishes she could burn the other masks, make him hers again just as he seems to be now. The man who listens and bids quiet.

She can see him. Sometimes, she can almost see him.

Some of his books remained behind. Works by human scholars. He hasn’t burned them. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asks.

He is. He’s stopped painting in favor of watching her flip through yellowed, old pages with dirty fingers. She wipes them on her thigh, self-conscious, remembering the days he would scold her for it. Before he was even just Solas and not hers in any capacity, but simply the hedge mage with an improbable story.

“Oftentimes, I forget how small you are,” he says. His voice trembles a little.

“I am not small,” she says.

“Not in a way you would understand,” he says, and turns away.

She sits on the top rung of the ladder, legs swaying back and forth. She watches his hand as it moves, stills, hesitates, traces but one hesitant stroke and repeats the anarchic routine. There is no telling what manner of beast he will end up creating—meticulous, careful Solas does not rely on a sketch this time around—but the disarray of it all seems to appease him.

“Then explain it to me,” she says.

“I can’t,” he says.

“You won’t,” she says.

“I shouldn’t,” he argues.

This is going nowhere. He is too set in his convictions and she too easily provoked. They’ll wear each other out.

“You’ve changed,” she says.

He has the good grace not to deny it. “It was necessary, but I am not a different person for it.”

“What did you do to yourself?” she whispers. Her knuckles are bloodless from where she grips the ladder. She doesn’t really want to know.

He feels _maimed_. Whole, but not quite. Bits and pieces, and not all of them his.

“Nothing that wasn’t essential,” he says. His back is to her. He drags a hand down the wall; she’s never known him to resort to anything other than brushes. He is blue to the elbows. “I dim it for you, so you aren’t overwhelmed,” he confesses. “But it weighs on me.”

“Then stop. Get rid of it.”

He snorts. She thinks he even fights the urge to roll his eyes. As if it is that simple. Silly, foolish Ellana. But it is, and he is greedy. Which brings them to a standstill.

“So,” she says, “recreating The Vicious Rape of the Dalish, then?”

“We really must rethink that name,” he says under his breath. “But no. I do not know what this is. Merely an outline. I will most likely end up tearing it down.”

She wants to shake him. Shake this madness, this deluded belief that he alone knows best, out of him, but she really is a little frightened. It’s there, with proper focus she can sense it. Something just beneath the surface, constantly repressed, swirling, surging, yearning to break free. A corrupted kind of power.

Just like that it is gone, and she can no longer feel it.

Solas smiles. He wipes the blue off his skin with a rag.

“Get rid of it,” she repeats.

“I can’t,” he says. Shakes his head. Cuts her off before she can even breathe. “Don’t ask me again—I can’t.”

He comes close and helps her off the ladder, hands at her waist. He watches her face, gauging her reaction. She feels the by now familiar shift of emotions; he drifts away, his mind flees elsewhere, he is thinking stratagems and she knows what he will say before his lips even part.

“We have to return,” he says.

“But not tonight,” she says, gripping his wrist.

“We have stayed for too long,” he says, but his fingers rub soft circles on her skin.

“Two days is hardly long,” she remarks.

He skims the line of her jaw with his knuckles. His smile softens when she doesn’t flinch.

“You cannot stall me forever,” he murmurs, on the verge of laughing.

“I can try,” she whispers.

He smells like paint, like dust, like a hint of the past. She kisses a line up his jaw and teases his throat with open-mouthed kisses, and suddenly she isn’t quite so sure who is breathing harder.

“I don’t want you like this,” he says, but he sounds choked and his hands have suspiciously thieved their way under her shirt, palms flat against her back. His attempt at pushing her away borders on pathetic.

“Yes, you do.”

She presses so hard against him her ribs whine. “This is good for you,” she whispers in between small pecks to the corners of his mouth. Left, right, repeat. “Here. This place. Away from all of them.”

“You are yourself again. Almost,” she says, tossing his wolf jaw amulet. It lands somewhere with a thud, and she is glad when his gaze doesn’t follow.

“You don’t have to be that other man,” and this almost sounds like a plea. Even her actions bleed desperation as she grips his collar, drags him down to properly kiss him.

“You can still be kind.”

Something within him finally snaps. She doesn’t expect the room he occupied during his time among them to still be here, but it is. And so is the bed with the modest straw mattress.

She was always a tad shameless, a tad wild, letting boys touch her in the back of aravels and sneaking away to kiss girls in too deep rivers. Where the water was high enough to conceal wandering hands and muffle sloppy, inexperienced meeting of lips. But with Solas it was always different, heightened. She understands why now—they were always on borrowed time—but it doesn’t change the fact that he was the first to really see, kiss, take her. And in a way, she is glad there was no one before him nor after. There is a certain power in this still, even if she was the innocent party.

Their stolen moments at Skyhold were so few and far between. He always drew back if she did not insist, and it was disheartening.

He looks at her like she might break. But she isn’t small, despite what he believes.

He turns her so her cheek rests against the pillow that has miraculously remained behind. And for a second she thinks this is it, he is going to pull down her breeches and take her from behind, leaving her to claw at the sheets for support, still half-dressed, but his fingers merely walk the expanse of her back to undo buttons and ties. He rolls her back to face him and then her pants do come off, and she is locking one leg around his waist. He will look at her. She won’t let him hide his face in her hair this time.

A string of archaic Elvhen is pressed to her skin, her throat, her lips. She gasps and so does he, and she doesn’t really have any recollection of how and when he ended up half-propped against the wall—of course there wouldn’t be a headboard—but she quite likes being in his lap. And his own clothes have joined the pile on the floor, somehow, which is nothing short of good. She likes it even more when one hand grips her hip and the other sneaks down, between her thighs, demanding that they part with a gentle pat.

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to his.

She knows what he will suggest, a scholar even now, and bites his lip. She doesn’t want his dead language, however beautiful it is.

His fingers tease her and it’s almost shameful how loud her sigh of relief is when he finally eases them inside, deliberately slowly. She feels on fire, bucking against his hand even as he dictates the rhythm, palm grinding against her. The arm around her waist tightens, blunt nails leaving crescent-shaped marks upon her skin, and she thinks that this might be enough. She is already so close with him practically making her ride his fingers, her movements so delightfully restrained, but he withdraws, slick fingertips sliding over the inside of her thigh.

He pushes at her and she pushes back, shaking her head. He actually quirks an eyebrow before trying to get her on her back once more.

“Like this,” she says. Or is it whispers? She’s been whispering so much today.

“Like this,” he agrees at last, and lifts her, helps her find the right angle to sink down on him.

And she’s never done this before, he was always the one to lead. Her hand wanders awkwardly, pressing to his chest and then his shoulder and even the wall. But the latter is too far away and she ends up bumping their noses together, balance lost.

It begins with what she thinks is a whimper, but soon recognizes to be poorly suppressed laughter. He maintains a firm hold on the nape of her neck as he kisses the tender spot behind her ear, but his breath is wheezing through his teeth and he is still laughing.

Giggling.

And there was only one other occasion during which he lost face so completely.

“You’re thinking of the bees,” she says, moody but not really.

He is clearly enjoying this, has no intention of cutting it short. The evidence is hard and throbbing between her legs and the hand not anchoring her is busy kneading her breast, but he just won’t stop with the damned laughter.

“Ir abelas,” he says. “Ir abelas, ma vhenan. Such a _specific_ mistake.”

He tried teaching her Elvhen in the past. Such a valiant effort gone to waste. His good intentions met an abrupt end when her tired mind failed to put together the right words. Her request for the butter to be passed somehow became a very slurred ‘I need four bees’ and he’d choked on his food.

She’d never seen him leave a room so quickly, and minutes later found him in his beloved rotunda, shoulders shaking and ugly little sounds that must have been repressed giggles fighting to escape his throat. His countenance cracked most beautifully, but he never renewed their lessons.

He mumbled something about her being so real that day; something she’d dismissed as one of his quirks, but should have cherished.

“Let it die,” she says. “It was embarrassing enough back then, but now you’re making fun of me for this.”

“Ir abelas,” he murmurs yet again.

He is not sorry, but she forgets it when his tongue catches a bead of sweat and follows it up her throat.

He is not sorry, and she isn’t angry.

He moves, finally gets her under him and sighs in satisfaction. His smile still lives, pressed to her pulse point. He snaps his hips and she can’t contain her little cry. Not when he pulls away just enough to catch her knees, ease her trembling legs up, wrap them around himself.

She doesn’t recognize the words he peppers her skin with at first.

At first.

“What did you say?” she asks, but her voice is weak.

“We have time,” he says as he kisses her cheek.

“We have time to get it right,” he says as he kisses her so she doesn’t argue.

But they don’t. They don’t have any time at all. He shouldn’t believe that.

She grips him. She shuts her eyes and just allows herself to feel because her whole body is suddenly shivering, and his clever fingers have found their way back down between them. His touch is anything but gentle as he coaxes her to let go, fingers teasing, rolling, circling while he moves within her. It is almost too much.

He drinks the gasps of pleasure from her lips, and his control shatters. His pace turns erratic. He presses her harder into the bed and comes, lips aimlessly mapping her face. When he shifts off her, she can still feel him. The warm wetness of him as it clings to her thighs; the taste of fruit his tongue was kind enough to share; the scent of him, of them, nearly obscene but delightful, on every inch of her skin.

She wraps around him. She touches him—because he likes to be touched, liked it even before and would never admit to it. He was touch-starved, but so secretive, so old, and she too young during the Conclave, remains so even now, and it’s a miracle she managed to trap him in the first place.

Her thoughts aren’t really clear. When he turns them so her back is to his chest, she knows he’s gone once again. His teeth close over the tip of her ear, an oddly pleasurable sensation.

Fingers crawl over her marked wrist. “You have been unable to enter the Fade lately,” he says, the words lost in her hair. “I worry.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she says. She almost snaps but manages to keep it down.

He is spent and tired and doesn’t want to fight. His hand rubs her arm in a soothing gesture before settling over her stomach.

“It could have been like this always,” she says. “Why didn’t you want it?”

But the real question is why didn’t he want her?

He is too fond of silence to break it, and she forgets to ask again.


	20. Guilt like Poison

She’s not exactly sure when she stops snapping at him, but it happens and he is softer for it.

And he looks so happy with the simplest of things that it hurts all the more whenever she remembers that he didn’t want her. Or at least didn’t want her enough. She was his second choice then and remains so even now.

Solas is a creature of conviction, of pride; he will not loosen his jaws and abandon his pursuit. But he loves her, she thinks that truly he does, and at times it blinds him. Those moments are brief, but she uses them.

She doesn’t like that he keeps writing, long letters that deepen his frown and undoubtedly carry words which will cause someone to draw a dagger, another someone to fall.

So she nudges him with her foot.

He looks up, bewildered. “Yes?” he asks.

“I have a cramp,” she says.

He’s surprised and more than a little a baffled, but slowly moves his hands up to massage her ankle. He tickles her foot. She isn’t ticklish, but smiles anyway and for the rest of the evening his quill is set aside.

He looks less drawn.

He leaves for a few weeks and upon his return doesn’t lock himself in his study or war room, but agrees to sit by the fireplace with her.

“It has been very quiet,” he says. “On both sides.”

“Oh,” she says. She isn’t naive enough to believe this to be the beginning of a truce, but it’s more information than he’s given her before.

He lifts her hand to his lips, grazes it with a chaste kiss.

“You already have so much,” she says. “Why do you need more?”

“I don’t need anything,” he says.”This is about reclaiming what time and the shemlen empire stole from us.”

“Then you don’t have any use for me,” she says, and his gaze falls at that. “I can’t give you any of it. You knew the inner workings of the Inquisition, every stronghold, every keep, every agent. But I would have never locked you away, Solas.”

Something within him hardens. She sees it in his eyes, and he isn’t her Solas anymore. At least not for the next few words.

“No, you would have killed me.”

“That’s not true.” But it is. Not she, never she, but certainly someone with her blessing.

He laughs. He kisses her cheek and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “It is,” he says, and his voice is a lilt, light and high. “I do not blame you.”

Then it becomes hard to talk because he says something about making good on his promise to leave Crestwood alone, and it undoes her. She decides it’s the perfect time to pull him in for messy, fervent kisses—because she’s been drinking overly sweet sherry and so has he, and their lips are so, so sticky for it.

If he did that little bit of good, surely he can do more.

“Your hair is so long, so pale.” He says it so casually, so conversationally, as though his cheek isn’t resting against her thigh while his fingers are busy pulling down her smalls.

She scrunches her eyes. Throws her head back just a bit as laughter rumbles through her. He is slightly drunk, just like that night at the Winter Palace. It’s overwhelming. She doesn’t want to lose herself, but always does.

She always thinks of who he was and forgets who he is. It’s more than a little sick, but it’s all she has.

“Oh?” she says, stroking his head in encouragement. “And what color was yours?”

“Red,” he says, dry lips moving against her skin. His tongue darts out, flickers over them, and when he presses them back to her it earns him a sigh.

“That would explain the freckles,” she says, giggling. Why is she even laughing?

“Hush.”

He climbs up her body, pressing haphazard kisses along the way, mouth hot, breath scorching even through her clothes.

“Should I call you Fen’Harel?” she wonders. Her fingers trace the shell of his ear.

He flinches. He looks pained before deciding to nip her lower lip. His tongue delves in when she yelps.

“No,” he mutters. “It was only ever an insult. I will not hear you say it, never you.”

At least he never lied about that.

That part of him will forever be hers.

*

The Fade has eluded her for so long that she almost doesn’t recognize it. She is nowhere familiar, just an empty space. A sea of endless grey. Briefly, she fears for the mark. For the spell—for surely it must be waning if she’s here.

Then she sees Dorian.

He tries to smile, he really does, but he is exhausted. Even here. And Feynriel fares no better. He just sits away from them, staring into nothingness.

Dorian exhales into her neck when she rushes to embrace him. He feels starved. He looks older. He is not carefree; he’s never truly been so, but at least before he used to wear a mask and act happy, fight through it. Now, he is just bitter.

“Your work?” she asks, trying to show him the mark that does not exist in dreams.

He smiles, and it is wicked. There he is. Finally.

“Do you like it?” he says. “Clever, is it not? This is my spell. I control it. I’m sure it made him more than a little angry.”

The memory of how it was bestowed upon her rushes back. That horrible feeling of dread and guilt rolled into one is like shrapnel in her heart. Impossible to dislodge.

“Your friend—” she chokes.

Dorian waves a hand. “Is in a trance,” he says. “She lives. I slowed down her heart.”

“I’m sorry, Dorian, I’m so sorry,” she whispers. And this is not enough. Nothing will ever be, but she has only words and this suffocating regret.

He shakes his head, dismissing her. “I would do even more for you but—” And he breaks, he finally breaks. He takes cue from her whispering and follows suit, his voice no more than a quiver of air.

“Everyone fights me.” It is said in the crook of her neck. He holds her much, much too tightly and she wishes she had the strength to respond in kind. They could break each other’s ribs and still be happy. “Vivienne questions my actions at every turn, says I am unfit to lead. Some even believe her. Morrigan”—his face twists into an ugly grimace at the mention of the name—“went absolutely crazy and took off after threatening you. Without her son we have no clue where to search for the old gods’ souls.”

Her expression sours too. She can’t help but huff. “Yes, she did visit me.”

Dorian huffs back, smug. “Well, she won’t anymore if she knows what’s good for her.” He takes her hand. “I couldn’t risk her finding you in the Fade until I’ve dealt with her.”

Ellana sighs. Rubs her eyes. This devotion will ruin him, them both. “Does it tire you out?”

“Not especially.” He shrugs. “But who gives a flying fuck about me.” And now he sounds wild, desperate, out of control.

He shakes with rage, his fingers dig into her skin so hard that were this reality she would be left bleeding. And she is panicking too.

“Dorian?” she whispers, running a hand through his beautiful hair.

“I’ve heard about Antiva,” he says.

“The fleet,” she begins.

He shakes her. He actually shakes her. His eyes are so wide. “Who cares about some frigates, Ellana?” Dorian hisses. “All those people. Those poor, poor people…”

She doesn’t know what’s happening. She feels like she’s being ripped apart at the seams, truths she was previously unaware of filling her to the brink. And she doesn’t want to know, she doesn’t, she can’t, she can’t—

“We had so many men just waiting for the signal to join us,” Dorian continues, oblivious of her distress. “They thought they were safe, they trusted us and awaited word. All the keeps, Ellana, all the strongholds, all the safe houses, he destroyed them all. All those people,” and he falls back into his previous mantra, trembling with grief.

And she can’t stand.

She can’t.

She can’t even breathe. Her nails rake over her throat, her chest, but they are too blunt to tear through skin, not nearly sharp enough to rip her to pieces.

“Give me time,” Dorian says. “Give me a little more time.”

He kisses her forehead and Feynriel makes them leave. He doesn’t even look her way.

She doesn’t want to wake up. She wants to get lost in the Fade, perhaps even allow a demon to break her. But there are only spirits, and most of them are kind. She sees aravels and she sees Skyhold and none of this makes sense. It’s a jumble of experiences and memories; something meant to be pleasurable, but morphs into a confusing mess.

She isn’t groggy when she wakes, her limbs aren’t heavy. Solas is wrapped around her, unbearably warm, one arm around her middle.

She crawls away. She pushes him off. He is jolted out of sleep too, but he is disoriented, frowning.

And she understands. She finally understands. That look of sadness. Those little indulgences.

He tricked her into betraying her own people. He theorized she wouldn’t leave them high and dry, would tell them where to find shelter. He gambled and won. Unable to chop off the snake’s head, he chose to instead stab it bloody.

All those soldiers. Just gone. Massacred. Crestwood doesn’t even begin making up for it. Nothing ever will.

That’s why he kept looking back. He was scared, so scared she would somehow figure it out.

“Are you well?” she hears his concerned voice. His hand caresses her back. “Would you like some water?”

But she can’t. She can’t hear his voice or feel his skin. She is going to be sick. Not from the overly sweet sherry or even from the fact that he is so dangerously close, lips brushing the tip of her ear.

This disgust is reserved for her alone.


	21. Bloody Your Hands

This fury is so hard to suppress, but she tries. Tries so desperately. She tells herself lies. Dorian could have been wrong. Dorian must have misunderstood.

But she isn’t stupid.

And she isn’t that naïve.

She is only tired of losing him. Always, always losing him. To secrecy, that night in Crestwood when he left her barefaced and confused; to truth, after he took the Anchor and walked through the eluvian; to his deluded convictions and maddening guilt which burned the sky and killed her friends and continue hurting her.

He looks at her with such softness that she burns stronger still. This is more than anger. It goes beyond that.

“What is wrong?” Solas asks, and he is confused.

He frowns. He sits beside her and takes her hand.

She will _hear_ him say it.

“Nothing,” she says, turning away from him.

She feels his other hand ghost over her shoulder, trying to make her face him again. She steels herself, her muscles harder than granite, and he relents.

“I thought we were past this childish anger,” he says, though it sounds like snapping. “What happened this time?”

 _This time_. As if she is throwing a tantrum. He is so good at bringing her down in order to subdue her temper. It’s a new habit, but then again they used to be on equal ground before and not waging a war. That probably has something to do with it.

“Why don’t you tell me?” she pushes, forcing a smirk onto her features.

“I will not play charades with you,” he says, stern.

She doesn’t want him touching her. She doesn’t want him talking. She wants him silent, forever quiet. No admissions, no lies. She wants to be wrong.

But he tenses at her next words and that is telling enough.

“Antiva was very lucky,” she says, making sure her tone is just light enough as not to pass for an outright accusation. “You were unusually kind to the people there.”

Solas doesn’t hesitate. She sees his smile—meant to be comforting, no doubt—in her peripheral, and he reaches to stroke her cheek with his knuckles, a gentle caress.

“Antiva was fortunate to have you,” he says. His lips lower to her shoulder, linger there a moment too long.

“And all the people got out,” she states.

“Yes,” he says.

“They all left the city before you took it.”

“Yes.”

His hand drifts lower and rubs her side, soothing. She recognizes the gesture; palms slithering up and down her body, warm but not as burning as her skin, calming her down whenever her breathing grew too labored after he’d fucked her.

She pushes him away.

“I hope they found shelter somewhere,” she murmurs, trying not to shake, not too fly off the handle, not to rip his throat with her own teeth.

Solas leans back. He doesn’t try to touch her anymore. There is a certain coldness to his countenance now as he watches her. He crosses his arms and smiles a small smile; nothing about him is sincere.

He knows that she knows.

She thought it would feel better to outwit him. Not like victory—too much death for that—but at least satisfaction. Instead, her words are ash in her mouth. She is small yet again under the scrutiny of his gaze.

He doesn’t even flinch.

He knows that she knows and will drag this out until she snaps.

“There are small cities around,” he says, ever the diplomat. “Various settlements. They had no trouble finding refuge, I’m sure.”

“Oh?” she says, finally turning fully back around. She pulls her knees to her chest, an insubstantial barrier between them. “Are you quite certain?”

“Very much so,” Solas concedes conversationally. “Perhaps it’s time for dinner. Shall we have an early one?”

She is going to crack. There’s a sharp pain deep within her skull.

“I find I’m not hungry,” she says. Her hand trembles and she grips one of the stupid decorative cushions. Of course the Elvhen would have them.

“Neither am I, in all honesty,” Solas says and smiles yet again. “There are no more matters requiring my attention for today. Shall we take a stroll through the garden? Or perhaps read.”

Now he speaks of honesty.

“I can’t read Elvhen.” It’s a miracle she’s not screaming at this point.

“I’ll translate,” Solas offers benevolently.

And this finally does it.

He won, he made her break, she’s the one acting like a child and she’s past caring. She springs to her feet and he follows, grin melting into an expression of pure neutrality. How she hates this mask, more so than the others. Anything is better than this expressionless front she doesn’t know how to deal with.

“Enough,” she hisses.

“If you wish,” he concedes.

“You killed my people.” She doesn’t mean to shake but she does. There is a tremor in her voice. Her knees feel so weak, softer than cotton. “You made me betray them.”

“As you have mine,” Solas answers, and his own tone still hasn’t wavered.

A flicker of revulsion nags at the back of her mind. How can he be so apathetic?

He looks distinctly apologetic. Yet another contradiction.

Then he adds, as if to himself, nearly under his breath, “You were never meant to find out.”

“And you think that makes it better?”

Finally, she does scream. She hits him in his chest, hard enough to bruise, she hopes, because agony radiates through her poorly-formed fist.

He shakes his head. Holds her at arm-length, coiling the tendrils of hair at her temples around his fingers. It’s a gesture protecting him and restraining her, but ever tender as he doesn’t want to hurt her. She will only hurt if she jerks away and then the fault will be hers alone.

Always her fault.

“I did not want you to torture yourself,” he says.

“You killed my people,” she repeats. “You slaughtered men who didn’t even have a chance to defend themselves.”

He scowls. There’s a certain beauty to this display of pure emotion.

“And how many of my soldiers has your Inquisition put down?” he demands. “Shall we enumerate? Let us never forget the incident with the ambush at the eluvian. You waited for them to come through and unleashed a hailstorm of arrows; they fell where they stood.”

This—them—they are not the same. But he makes it sound like that and for a moment doubt settles in, followed by disgust. She isn’t blameless. She spilled more than enough blood on her own.

He sees the horror on her face and steps in closer. This time, she can’t push him away. His lips press to her forehead, so gentle, so soft. And when he speaks, his breath scorches her skin.

“Ir abelas, ma vhenan. War is merciless.” The hand holding her hair sneaks down to massage the small of her back, but her muscles do not relax and he sighs. “The blame is mine, of course. I take no pleasure in this, but I do what I must.”

“You didn’t have to do any of this,” she whispers. “No one’s thanked you. No one ever will.”

I won’t, she thinks.

No one asked him to tear down the Veil and bring back immortality and magic. No one needed it. The world was flawed and their kind oppressed, but history is unkind to everyone at some point or another. They would have fought through it. Briala, in her own way, was already trying. _She_ was trying. His sacrifice wasn’t needed; it wasn’t his to make.

“I do what I must,” he repeats. “But you do not have to bloody your hands any longer. I don’t want you carrying that burden.”

How good he is with words, twisting everything to his advantage. It’s sickening.

“How kind you are,” she says, trying to wriggle out of his forceful embrace. “How generous.”

“I won’t break,” Solas says, and finally releases her, causing her to stumble back most gracelessly. “But you might. You will,” he corrects himself, “if you continue down this path. I will make the hard decisions from now on, vhenan, and the blame shall be mine alone.”

“As it should,” she says.

“Leaving you free of it,” Solas finishes, ignoring her. “I am sorry that this knowledge brought you pain,” he says, hands locking at his back, “but I will not apologize for seeking to protect my people. You would have done the same.”

He tilts his head. He looks at her in that calculating, detached way, and she knows his mind is running through possible leaks. She needs to get away now.

“Who told you?” he asks, and his voice is too tender, persuading her into confiding in him.

She leaves. She rushes out, nearly losing her balance. Mercifully, when she chances a glance over her shoulder, he doesn’t follow.

The last few months were a haze and she an idiot. A lovesick idiot—Morrigan was right, after all.

An idiot for trying to bring back the Solas he was before all of this.

An idiot for believing that part of him survived the destruction of her world.

He did warn her. The fault is hers.

She feels so, so sick. Physically as well as mentally. She thought she had no hope left, but a stubborn morsel had remained behind, growing with every—false—small act of kindness she managed to coax out of him.

He cares. But he cares only for her and that’s not enough. That’s not right. It’s deranged.

Ellana locks the door to her room, a precaution meant to soothe her mind but offering no true protection. She sits cross-legged on the floor and goes back to trying what she has put off for far too long.

Breaking the wards.


	22. Game of Patience

She doesn't expect this.

In all honesty, no one could have expected _this_.

Whatever it is.

She stares unabashedly, hand on jutted hip, at the scene unfolding right before her eyes. She just can't look away from this odd picture of an Abelas clad in something other than his armor for a change, sitting side by side with a grinning Zevran. He is so rare to catch in moments of leisure; she never thought he shared those with anyone.

Much less with, well, Zevran. In broad daylight, in a faraway corner of the garden.

Zevran who shouldn't be here at all, but still is, wearing the attire of a guard, his fair hair braided in an elaborate Elvhen style.

Zevran's hand finds Abelas' thigh and settles there, earning him a chastising glare but no outright rejection.

"What the fuck is this," she muses, casually striding by.

As if she just happens to be in the vicinity. As if she isn't completely flabbergasted.

"Inquisitor," Zevran exclaims, beaming at her. "I do hope you remember me."

She places a hand over her heart in mock surprise. "I believe we met in Antiva?"

"That must be it, yes," Zevran agrees, grin growing ever wider and fingers digging deeper into Abelas' thigh.

There is a certain degree of familiarity there, she notices, when the austere Sentinel hesitates a heartbeat too long before shunning his touch. He rises so fast, a joint in his neck cracks and she can hear it from where she stands.

He makes to leave without a word.

"Commander," Zevran says, slightly bowing his head.

"Return to your duties," Abelas rasps, not turning around. He readjusts his collar and disappears behind a corner.

Good for you, Zevran, she thinks.

Aloud, she says, "What is wrong with you?"

Zevran shrugs. He stretches, craning his neck so the sun better caresses his golden skin. He looks terribly at ease, like he belongs, and it isn't a sight she likes. Must she be the only outsider? Always?

He is still smiling when he says, "Look."

At first, she isn't certain what he's trying to show her—and there are so many things she wants to ask him that her mind reels—but then he beckons her closer and she sees. A small, timid flame dances in the center of his palm, dying out when her breath hits it.

"That's not going to—" she begins only to be cut off.

"I'm not a mage," Zevran says quietly.

"Oh," she says.

Ellana sits down. Well, the Veil is gone after all and elves have always had a natural affinity for magic. Still, this is decidedly odd. She doesn't know what to make of it. She is too weak, Zevran is too weak, this is not the way out she was hoping for.

Zevran pulls himself to his feet.

"By your leave, Inquisitor," he announces.

She wants to catch him by the sleeve and force him to stay because she is so desperately lonely—and she just got him back—and he is the only one on her side. But she can't afford to jeopardize this little opportunity. It's bound to crumble very soon; in time, Solas will see right through him if Abelas fails to. They have to make the most of it.

So she allows him to leave with a lump in her throat.

He is Leliana's man, after all. He must know what he's doing.

One of them has to.

His shoulder only barely brushes hers, but she hears his soft voice. Not even a whisper, just a rush of air.

"The men are being sent somewhere in fourteen days time. East Wing. Weak wall." Disjointed words. Clipped truths. Slivers of hope that get her heart pounding.

She watches Zevran as he jogs through the garden, voice loud and carefree once more as he cries, "Wait up, Commander!"

Well. This was definitely something. She still can't quite believe it.

This beautiful Antivan idiot is going to get himself killed.

She wonders if he did manage to wrestle Abelas' tight pants off in the end.

*

She climbs the tallest tower, three steps at a time. North, not East. The wards here are strong, but they are strong everywhere so it comes as no surprise.

She knows Solas will come find her eventually, and settles comfortably on the floor. It's of no much use, but she does toy with the wards, testing them out, feeling the bindings snap back at her whenever she pushes too hard.

The signature is different; still Solas' but deeper, possessing all of his finesse as well as some new, brutish strength. It is not gentle, it is hard like diamond and just as cutting. She feels a little weaker following every attempt.

Solas does show up when it's already well past midnight. He bats away cobwebs and huffs to chase floating dust out of his face.

"It is late," he says.

"You're very astute," she answers.

She feels him lower himself to his knees behind her. For a moment, he does nothing but watch her wandering hand as it traces a pattern on the cracked windowsill. He makes a sound in his throat, intrigued.

"You should probably stop now that I am here," he remarks. "Any damage you cause I will mend."

"Then you should leave," she suggests. "This way we'll both be happy."

Good, she thinks. Let him think this is the part of the Keep she is interested in. The North and definitely not the East.

His hands find her waist and roam up and down. She shivers when he leans in too close.

"Come to bed," he whispers. "How long are we not going to speak to each other?"

"Get your bloody paws off me," she all but growls. "I'm done playing pretend with you."

Behind her, he sighs but ultimately relents.

Something in the wards breaks. Not the wards themselves—she wouldn't be that lucky—but rather something that feels like the first layer of the spell. It lashes out at her. The freed magic rushes into her, biting her fingertips, crawling up her arm—and then her wrist in bleeding.

It's not nearly as severe as when Solas tried probing the mark, but still impressive enough. She observes with morbid fascination as blood flows in tiny rivulets, staining the front of her pants as it drips. It barely hurts, which makes it so much worse. She could hurt herself and not even know it.

Solas gasps. The personification of stoicism actually gasps as he seizes her by the elbow.

"Interesting," she says.

"Heal yourself," he orders.

"Hm," she says, admiring her work.

He drags her up, puts his hand over the wound and attempts to lead her out.

"Either you do it or I call Abelas." His voice is laced with so much venom, she could drown in it. "And I know how fond of him you are."

She really doesn't want to see Abelas. He would never let her live it down. Not after today.

Slowly, she tends to the wound and senses Solas' tension gradually flee. He is still on edge, but at least now his fingers don't feel like they would fracture bone if she were to jerk away. He follows her down when she lowers herself to the floor once more.

She sits on her haunches and he invades her personal space.

He doesn't look her in the eye. His gaze is downcast as very, very slowly he works on wiping the blood away from her wrist. There's no water for him to clean her skin, but he makes due with a corner of his robes until nothing remains but a thin, caked finish.

"Come to bed," he repeats, much quieter this time.

She hasn't in many days and will not give in now.

"If you're tired, just go," she says. "You can sleep alone."

Solas shakes his head. He rubs his tired eyes.

"I am not your jailor—you must know that," he says, and very suddenly catches her chin, forcing her to look at him.

She swats at his wrist, but he doesn't let go.

"Excuse me if I don't believe you," she says. Then adds, "Don't touch me."

"This—this is necessary, for the time being," he goes on as if she's said nothing at all, as if her words didn't even come to pass. She doubts he's even listening. He sounds strangled. "It won't last. When all of this is over—once it is all done—I will not hold you."

"You're holding me now," she protests, and finally manages to push him off.

There's a pang in her chest at his crestfallen expression, but it doesn't really matter. It shouldn't. He didn't care when he sent his men to murder hers, to burn all the safe houses and keeps she foolishly mapped out for the Crows.

But.

But she wants to know.

She thinks she can read him. A little. Not a lot. He is awfully good at hiding his intentions, but once in a while something slips through the cracks of his mask.

She thinks.

"Do you mean it?" she asks, careful not to put too much emotion into her voice.

"Of course," he is quick to reassure.

"You won't get any more secrets out of me. I won't tell you anything. I won't help you."

He brushes knotted hair out of her face. He kisses her forehead and just holds her still. When she turns her back to him and goes back to meddling with the wards, his displeasure takes on physical form. She can almost feel it in the air around them, an oppressing presence, as he moves away to lean against the opposing wall.

Whenever she comes closer to dislodging that elusive _something_ in the wards' construct, Solas responds, repairing the tiny chips in the enchantment, strengthening it each time.

They are going to be at it all night, but he is more tired than she is.

She wonders when he'll snap.

"Perhaps you should have paid more attention to your studies," he drawls. "The Knight Enchanter specialization would have helped you a fair deal."

She recognizes the tactic. He's trying to make her angry so she'll abandon whatever she's doing and storm off. He knows her temper to be hot and with a short wick.

It won't work, but she shoots him a heated glare anyway.

When that proves fruitless, he decides to thread his fingers through her hair. Eventually, it ends up in a neat braid which falls over her shoulder. It's a little ironic that he should be so knowledgeable about this.

"Come to bed," he whispers yet again, kissing her neck, her shoulder, breathing hot air onto her skin.

She doesn't respond and he stays there, chin resting on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her middle.

"Please," he says, "please, I do not want to see you hurt. Cease this."

He even shakes a little, which is perfect because he misses the exact moment she decides to elbow him in the ribs. Hard. His forceful exhale is followed by a loud cough.

"I said, don't touch me," she repeats. And then her voice is very small again because she can't help herself, because these words of his, this confession or whatever it was, is so very different from anything else he's given her. So she asks again, "Do you really mean it?"

And he responds just as warmly, as kindly, "Of course." His touch doesn't return, but his breath is at her ear. "I fought for freedom. I would not take yours."

She wants to believe it.

He waits. Waits for her to break or submit or just walk away. He drags an old, dusty chair out of a dark corner—probably hidden up here so long ago its former owners are dead in a ditch somewhere by now—and settles in it like a king.

At this point, she's just doing it out of spite. She's so tired that her magic couldn't force a kitten to drink milk.

But that's not the point.

He can't crowd her forever. Sooner or later, he will have to weaken the wards or watch her continually injure herself. She tries not to think of the alternative which would involve locking her in a room and losing the key.

There's no guessing how deep his reserves of patience go. She just hopes fourteen days will be enough to sufficiently irritate him.

And then she'll shatter that weak wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am decidedly not sorry for this Abelas & Zevran thing lol


	23. Cultural Relativism

At first, he has Abelas shadowing her steps. An arrangement which makes for a very miserable existence for them both.

Unlike Solas, Abelas can use his magic on her without fear of causing harm. He mends wards wherever she disrupts them—and still no major damage—in silence. Not that she's trying in earnest, but still. At some point, she notices him pull a book out from Creators know where and lazily flip through it as he follows her.

"So," she says, leaning against a wall, "how's your dalliance going?"

Abelas licks his fingers to better anchor the next page. "Quite well," he says, unruffled. "Would you like details?"

"Is his hair long enough?" she asks.

"It could be longer," he replies in that same monotonous voice, eyes gliding over ancient words.

"That sounds like a fetish." Ellana wrinkles her nose, hoping he sees her. "Must be an Elvhen quirk. Solas likes to braid mine."

"You have cracked the code, Inquisitor," Abelas responds, all the disinterest of the world poured into his tone.

She is being deliberately obtuse and irritating in hopes of getting him to leave and disregard his orders. Surely a Sentinel of Mythal has better things to do—surely he didn't sign up for this when he joined Solas.

"I think—oh yes I do believe it is—this thing we're doing is called sharing. Shall I partake?"

"No," Abelas says very simply, and with a flick of the wrist sends frost to attack her fingertips when she pushes too hard against a ward and its defense mechanism nearly snaps back at her.

He usually dislikes the mere sight of her, but seems uncharacteristically tolerant today.

Eventually, exhausted, she stops trying. At least for now, Ellana tells herself.

This is not the way to get to Solas.

*

Solas is so mellow that it immediately puts her on edge; an interesting contrast. He's got dirt on his clothes, but at least it's not blood. Still, her eyes narrow.

"What have you done?" she asks.

It's a question she's thrown at him too many times as of late. She is tired of the usual noncommittal shrug, the outright avoidance. It makes her jaw set tight and invites a dull pounding to claim her skull.

"Your people were not harmed," he says, divesting himself of his outer layers.

She is not convinced. Or impressed. Or reassured, for that matter.

"You're too pleased," she says.

"I am happy to see you," he says, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

"That's not it," she argues.

"Very well," Solas says. He wraps a night robe around himself, lazily working on the ties. "I have been busy murdering everyone. Are you satisfied?"

His eyes crinkle as he smiles. She nearly bites through her lip.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you," she mutters.

"Yes," he says, and he isn't listening. His attention has been consumed by some report. Always the reports, always the scheming.

He carefully unfolds the yellowed parchment and settles on the bed, back comfortably propped against the headboard and a few pillows. She watches him arch an eyebrow and pat invitingly the empty space beside him.

She fights the urge to scowl, remembering why she sought him out this late at night in his personal rooms.

She sits on the edge of the bed, ignoring the invitation but not throwing it back in his face. She feels a little shy, a little awkward, as her fingers fumble with the sheets and it draws his interest. He settles the report in his lap and folds his hands, waiting patiently.

"I, ah," she begins, fidgety and nervous. She swallows. "The enchantments on my arm are wearing off," she finishes quietly. It is almost a whisper. "I don't know how that happened. It barely obeys me anymore. I can seldom make the fingers move."

Dagna worked so hard on developing the prosthetic, giving more of herself than was wise. And the end product was something she could have never expected, shaped to respond to her will whenever attached. She learned to disregard its painful weight, or how it always left bruises, because it was better than being maimed.

But now it's nearly useless, and she can't ignore the soreness as there is nothing to counteract it.

She doesn't want to be incomplete once again.

Solas could be petty in the past, especially when peeved. She remembers him beating Blackwall at cards, not stopping even when the man lost his last piece of clothing. She recalls his almost ritualistic bickering with Dorian, constantly bringing him down with mentions of slavery, partly because he felt strongly about it—but also because he just _could_ , and Dorian would walk away dispirited afterwards.

A part of her expects him to just scoff at her. She has been pushing his buttons with unprecedented determination lately, after all.

But he just listens in silence. Because he is thoughtful and kind where she is concerned, and it always ends up making her feel ashamed.

"I see," Solas says. "I am sorry. You should have told me sooner, ma vhenan."

"Will you look at it?" she asks.

"Of course," he replies, smiling warmly.

"Right now?" she says, hopeful, already ready to bolt.

There's a stiff pause during which he hesitates. He is weary and most likely has to get up barely past sunrise, but finally acquiesces.

When she returns, he extends his previous invitation anew and this time she does crawl in beside him. He sighs contently, taking a moment to nuzzle her temple with his nose.

"You smell of lilac," he whispers, pressing his lips to her skin. "I have missed you."

"My arm, Solas," she reminds him, giving his chest a gentle enough shove.

His fingers prod the dawnstone and the wood worked into it with clinical curiosity. She feels his magic as it washes over, probing, testing. He traces a rune pattern and makes a little noise, brows furrowed.

"It is very heavy," Solas comments, almost absentmindedly. "How does it not hurt you?"

"It does," she admits. "You get used to it."

He sets the prosthetic aside. "The runes are, for lack of a better term, dead," he says, looking very apologetic. "I do not have any to replace them, at the moment."

"Dead?" she repeats, frowning.

He fidgets, looking away. "A great surge of power would have that effect on lesser enchantments."

Were she a better person, she wouldn't take this opportunity to rile him up when he's trying to help—lest it costs her that very help.

But she isn't a good person around him, not anymore. So Ellana needles him.

"Something like the Veil burning?" she asks very casually.

He exhales through his teeth and doesn't answer. He slips one arm around her shoulders when she tries to leave, and somehow ends up manoeuvring her into his lap. She tenses, back pressed flush to his chest as his hand splays over her abdomen.

"Stay a little while," he requests, lips at her ear. "I will see to finding appropriate runes in the morning. There was a Circle tower nearby; I'll send people to pick through the rubble."

"Pick through the rubble," she echoes his words, mood darkening. This only goes to remind how much he destroyed.

Solas doesn't dignify it with some pacifying retort. For that, she is grateful.

He goes back to his report, settling it in her lap and peering over her shoulder. It mustn't be very comfortable, but he isn't complaining. She doesn't crane her neck to help him and feels minor satisfaction when some of her hair manages to get stuck in his mouth.

She zones out, drowns out his voice, but some of it does break through.

"What?" she says. "What was that?"

"History, I can understand. Facts are forgotten all the time, truths twisted. To the victor go the spoils, I suppose is a fitting enough expression to use. But written word?" Behind her, he shakes his head in reprimand. "How could your kind forget the rudimental act of reading? So much could have been preserved had you just—"

"If you want me to stay, you will not finish that sentence," she warns him.

Her kind. Of course, of course. Condescending, he is always so very condescending. Ever since he got his ancient elves back—never the matter that their numbers are no match for their modern kin—his pride has reached unprecedented heights. He treats those who join him kindly, but ultimately they will always remain inferior in his eyes.

"As a First, was it not your duty to preserve knowledge? Wasn't it what your Keeper taught you?" he asks.

She huffs. Disbelief swells in her chest. Now he plays the Dalish card?

"Please," she says, waving her hand. "Keeper Deshanna was too busy chasing us around the campfire and preach proper etiquette."

He chuckles. "Did it work?"

"Clearly," she says, sour. "Can't you tell from my good manners?"

"The Dalish have their faults, but I was wrong to judge them."

And this is coming from where exactly?

"Solas," she says.

"Yes?" he answers.

"Don't even try. You continually praise me by insulting my roots."

She is remarkable. For a Dalish. She has a beautiful spirit. For a Dalish. She has shown incredible wisdom. For a Dalish.

She has arsenal for years to come if he so much as dares argue her point.

Solas makes an odd sound, something between a chortle and a sigh, and allows his finger to drift over the text. Involuntarily, her eyes follow. He reads in silence for a few minutes before rubbing her side, seeking her attention.

"The letters are variants of the runes you might have seen etched into the stone of old temples," he says. "The Common alphabet is simplistic in comparison, but I assure you the basics are not quite so complicated. It is actually—"

She grips his wrist so hard her own hand begins to shake. "Don't," she says through gritted teeth. "Don't force your culture on me."

"It is yours too," Solas says, somewhat saddened. "As a First, you should be eager to learn."

"I am not a First anymore," she reminds him.

That ship sailed long ago. The Inquisition claimed her dedication and he her vallaslin; together they robbed her of a chance of ever returning to her clan.

"But you are still Dalish."

"Let it go," she growls. "I stopped caring for history when you announced your intent. We were wrong to be proud of our past if people like you walked the earth."

If he is affected by her harsh words, his voice does not betray it.

"I wish you would not think that," he says, his free hand resuming its exploration of her side, sliding down to her hip. "Our tongue, at least, it would make it easier—"

"No," she interrupts him yet again. "I don't need it. I'm not staying, and no one else in the world has use for a dead language except for you and your haughty brethren."

She feels claustrophobic.

Most of his followers are from this age, but he has effectively surrounded himself with mementos of the past, let it be Sentinels he woke from various temples or customs he inadvertently made others accept by parading them about. Of course they would want to follow in his footsteps—the Dalish were always too eager to please and city elves only ever wanted to belong.

He had the perfect flock just waiting for him.

His fingers have found their way to her thigh, and she can feel his trepidation in the way his breath quickens. He's not listening anymore. As always whenever she points out the flaws in his heritage, he goes deaf. And that infuriates her more than anything. It's a direct declaration that her opinion does not matter.

"I'm tired," she says, swinging her legs off the bed.

He trails his fingers down her back until she's out of reach, but does not trap her.

"Vhenan," his quiet voice calls out to her when she's in the doorway. "Who told you?"

He hasn't forgotten. Of course he hasn't.

She swallows thickly, suddenly very glad her back is to him. "Your men talk," she lies. "Not all of them are Elvhen."

"No," he disagrees, voice colored with cool evenness, "they do not."

She leaves in silence.

*

In the morning, he sits with her while she eats. His own plate is mostly untouched. He keeps throwing her careful glances whenever he thinks her focus to be wavering.

"Will you stop hurting herself?" he asks.

"You know the answer to that," she replies, undeterred by the persistent sadness in his eyes. "Is that raspberry jam?"

Solas sighs. He shakes his head and writes the final line in his missive before giving it to a scout.

Her tea tastes strange.


	24. Path of Hate

"I would like for you to speak to Dorian."

She stops eating and narrows her eyes at him from across the table. Solas doesn't meet her gaze, his interest drawn to a point past her shoulder.

"No," she says.

"You will not even ask me why?"

"I'm assuming it's for something horrible. I told you, I'm not helping you again."

Silence settles in at that.

It begins as dryness she can't chase away no matter how much water she pours down her throat. But then it's spreading, and it's like her own voice has shriveled and died. She can't as much as force a cough out. Ellana glares at the empty teacup, grabbing it with a shaky hand and bringing it to her nose.

The smell of tea leaves is almost overwhelming, too potent, too strong, but underneath all of it, if she focuses hard enough, lingers a hint of something different. Impossible to pick up unless one is searching.

She feels so weak.

So repulsed.

Any mage, belonging to a Circle or running from it, has learned to fear this colorless, nearly odorless, docile only by appearance liquid. She is no exception.

She tries fire and it dies out. Lightning doesn't crackle through her fingers. Frost refuses to coat her palm. It is infinitely worse than a Templar's purge spell.

Magebane.

When she tries to get up, her legs fold beneath her and she has to grip the table to stay upright.

Solas still can't meet her eyes, but he has somehow walked to her side without her noticing. She feels his hand on the small of her back, soothing but trembling just as she is.

"I am sorry," he says, "I am so sorry. You kept hurting yourself, pushing against the wards. I couldn't stand by and watch."

"Magebane?" she rasps.

She doesn't even know how she manages to get the word out. It is weak, but it is not. A little contradiction. The terror in her voice makes him flinch, but it's not a victory.

"I am sorry," he repeats, much quieter this time.

Her hand wanders the expanse of the table, seeking support. It grabs the first thing it comes in contact with: a crystal pitcher.

And then she's crashing it against the side of his face.

Solas stumbles.

She has never seen him so taken aback, not even when overwhelmed by a behemoth back in Emprise du Lion when they were reclaiming Suledin Keep. A deep gash runs up his jaw, and he barely has the time to raise his hand to assess the damage as blood begins to flow.

So he just stands there, his robes soaked and his face bloody, trying to reach out to her. It is almost pathetic.

"I am sorry, I am so—" he begins again, and this time she thinks his voice might actually break. Or he will. Or they both.

She can't listen to him. She can't look at him. She can't.

She shakes her head and backs away, hand crawling in horror to her throat.

"Don't come near me," she says. She wants to yell, but she can barely stand straight. "I'm done with you. I'm done."

"I wouldn't have been forced to do any of it had you not been hurting yourself," he murmurs, and lowers himself into a chair.

Solas hides his face in his hands. His breaths come out shallow as he tries to regain a semblance of calm. When he can, he looks at her again.

"Ellana," he sighs.

"No," she says. "I'm done. I'm done, you hear me? I'm done trying to find you."

She is not making any sense at this point, her affirmations a confused mess and through a fog she hears him tell her as much. Even now, he is trying to force his version of clarity on her. Pick through her worthless arguments and make her see reason. His reason.

She can't. She can't.

She can't breathe. Much less think.

She is not Thedas' keeper. She doesn't owe anything to anyone. Whatever concessions she's managed to coax out of him with soft touches and occasional smiles are not worth this.

She wants to weep because she loves him so much—no, not him. What he was. Or pretended to be. Or the part he played while free of duty. She wants those days back so desperately. The Inquisition took everything: her purpose, her family, her time. In the end, she just wanted to walk away with him but she didn't get even that.

He was her first love. It shouldn't have been like this.

She is owed better.

What they have is toxic. She's been clinging to the past in the same way as he, and the realization sickens her.

She is still close enough when he tries to lean in, grasp her hand, but she jerks away as if shocked.

"Don't touch me," she says. "Don't come close to me. Don't speak a word to me,"

Something in his expression hardens. Another masks. So many masks. She would peel one off only to encounter another; it will always be like this.

"You were hurting yourself," he says. He is a broken record, repeating the same thing over and over.

This is not about good intentions. This is not some selfless act of love on his part.

He still thinks he's right. He doesn't understand this breach of—no, it is more than privacy. I fought for freedom, I would not take yours, he promised her. This little act of treason—and he's betrayed her so often already that she ought to roll over and just accept it as part of life by now—goes against the core value he claimed to be behind his sense of duty.

"If you ever come near me again, I will claw your eyes out," she warns him.

She leaves him to pick glass shards out of his wound alone.

*

"This is not a small wall, Zevran."

"I never said it was small. It is still a wall, however."

"It's the foundation," Ellana all but hisses.

They have to be quiet. It's a miracle she managed to find and then steal him away in the first place. The East Wing is deserted on a good day, but this perpetual stillness has the disadvantage of betraying every single little sound.

"Well, if your heart is set on it, just do it," Zevran grumbles.

To say that he is unhappy about this would be an understatement. He still wants to wait until most of the men leave on whatever fool mission Solas is sending them on. But she's not waiting. Not a day longer. Not a second.

Ellana shifts from foot to foot.

"I can't," she confesses, awkwardly.

Zevran's eyes grow to the size of tablespoons. "And you think I can? You have seen me, yes? I am a delicate Antivan flower. Would you like me to bash my shoulder against it and hope the bricks come loose?"

She shushes him, a finger pressed to her lips. "That raises the question of what you expected me to do."

"You're a mage," he says, as if that explains everything.

"I'm not a mage at the moment," she says.

"I do not think that's something you can just turn off and on, Inquisitor."

"You'd be surprised."

They are going to drown in sarcasm if it continues like this. There's nearly enough rope for them to hang themselves with.

Ellana forces herself to breathe.

She grips his hand and presses his palm flat against the wall.

Zevran quirks an eyebrow, but his interest quickly turns to apprehension as she says, "Cast."

"What?" Zevran squeals. The assassin actually squeals. He looks at her like she's insane; not a far off guess, she even feels so.

"Cast," she repeats. "You have some magic. You showed me."

"I had a little candle in my palm!" he exclaims. "I can't do anything more."

"And I have magebane coursing through my veins," she cries, "so either you do it or we'll be stuck here forever."

His signature smirk withers and dies. For the longest time, Zevran says nothing. She grows shy under the scrutiny of his gaze; he looks at her, assessing, a mirror image of Solas whenever he did so while calling her small.

She must appear wild.

She doesn't care.

She doesn't even know what she's doing. There are wards nearby; even if this succeeds, they might not make it far.

But Solas only warded off the entrances and exits. Not the walls themselves. They have to try.

"I'll try," Zevran concedes at last, but by his tone it is clear he has no confidence whatsoever. He is only doing this to appease her. "How do I even...?"

"Think of fire," she says.

"Helpful," he comments.

"Just think of fucking fire, Zevran."

"It is not working."

"You're not trying."

"You are not explaining it well—"

"—think of it and push—"

"—not giving birth here—"

"—nothing to explain, just push it out of you!"

She feels his temper snap before he realizes it himself. She doesn't have the time to brace herself against the sudden surge of mana, and neither does Zevran. It is not fire that escapes him, but a raw shock wave of power, so similar to everything she saw in young, inexperienced mages but amplified tenfold by the Veil being down.

It is oppressive, compressing her lungs as she is thrown back.

Zevran—somehow—remains standing, but his knees are cotton, shaking.

The wall crumbles.

It comes down like a house of cards, the ancient bricks set loose. They fall away one by one, causing a thick cloud of dust to envelop them. The mortar has been reduced to sand.

A supporting column collapses.

Zevran looks ready to die. He is as white as bone.

In the place of the wall, now sits a gaping hole. A few horses could easily come through abreast.

Zevran swallows. "We are going to walk away very quickly now," he announces.

"Very, very quickly," she agrees.

The whole Keep is going to be here in an instant, Solas most certainly included.

She has never moved so fast. Zevran laces her arm with his and literally drags her away. They round a corner and then another before she understand that she isn't the one trembling like an aspen leaf.

"Sweet Maker," Zevran keeps repeating. He can't stop throwing glances around, then pulling her into a dark corner, there into an empty hallway.

"Breathe," she whispers.

But she can't breathe herself; this is hypocritical advice.

"I'm not you," he mutters. "I can't hit my boyfriend or destroy part of his stronghold and get away with a kiss! Oh Maker, this is bad, this is so bad."

News travel fast, the delirious part of her mind snickers.

"So Abelas is your boyfriend now."

This isn't the time for jokes.

But they are both about to keel over and die from stress, so she chances it.

"We haven't talked specifics," he hisses, "but I am certain we will walk down the aisle under Andraste's blessed gaze one day."

Zevran crowds her. He pushes her against a wall, yanks off his cowl and works it around her head. He hides her braid in the thick fabric and pulls down her sleeve so her prosthetic arm is fully concealed.

Their foreheads almost touch and his breath mingles with hers as he whispers, "Right now everyone is going to rush to the site of the commotion. All the posts will be deserted."

"What are you thinking?" she asks.

"We are going to the stables," he says, and weaves their fingers together.

His hand is warm and comforting as it grips hers.

They run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually pretty happy I managed to get everyone so riled up about Ellana; that's exactly what I was going for. I needed her to reach a breaking point that just goes beyond anything ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	25. The Quiet Woods

"Venavis," says the guard.

Zevran is unimpressed and is certain to let him know as much. His eye roll can only be qualified as glorious. He sweeps past the young man, bumping their shoulders together which sends him staggering.

She pretends to be deeply fascinated with the wall; it won't do to let him see her face.

"Venavis," the guard repeats. He reaches out to stop him, hesitant. "You can't—"

"Don't venavis me," Zevran scoffs. "I've seen you in the Alienage. You know a grand total of five old Elvhen words and I am in no mood to hear you recite them. Either speak Common or _fuck off_."

"You can't," the man repeats, but the look in his eyes is distressed. He is afraid. His gaze darts back and forth between the Keep, where voices continually rise in volume, and the assassin before him.

The ground is stomped. Everyone rushed out, leaving him alone.

He doesn't trust Zevran. He trusts him even less after he retrieves a saddle and throws it to her.

She wants to laugh because this is so surreal. She can't believe that out of all the horses, Zevran managed to find Potato. That he kept him. That the massive Folder is here and eyeing everyone with unabashed suspicion while pawing at the earth.

He gives her a wary look, but allows the saddle to be thrown over his back.

Still doesn't like her, then.

But there are sugar cubes lying about and she steals a few. Potato nuzzles her hand, gives it a long, hot lick to steal the treat, and decides he doesn't hate her entirely.

The guard is confused.

"Fuck off," Zevran says, his tone much harsher this time when a trembling hand attempts to halt him.

"Did the Commander allow this?"

"Naturally."

He doesn't believe him.

It happens so fast.

Zevran is too shaken up, his reflexes lacking. He notices a heartbeat too late the man's hand as it sneaks to the hilt of his dagger. Perhaps he didn't even intend to strike, but Zevran's hastiness is betrayal of intention enough.

A blurry of motion.

The guard collapses to his knees, his nose a broken fountain spurting blood. The dagger clatters against the ground, equally bloody.

Zevran clutches his side. He doesn't stumble, but the string of curses which escapes him is as wild as the flow of blood he struggles to quell.

Chink in the armor. How ironic. What were the odds.

"I am getting sloppy," Zevran pants, and proceeds to kick the man in the face.

That effectively steals his consciousness; he snuffs out like a candle. An ominous _crack_ suggests his jaw has been treated to a similar fate as his nose.

Zevran doesn't fall, but his legs are weak. She can see it from where she stands, and rushes to embrace him around the middle lest he collapses. Zevran gives a derisive laugh; the eye roll meant for her is much softer than its exasperated predecessor.

He pushes her. He climbs on top of Potato with but three huffs. She counts them while forgetting to breathe herself.

She knows how to ride bareback, but the commotion in the distance dissuades her from stealing another mount. The animals rear in their stalls, nervous.

Another part of the foundation has come down, and the cloud of dust around the courtyard the East Wing leads to is thick enough to cluster lungs.

Zevran is saying something, hissing at her to just join him already, but she's shaking her head. No. Wait. A moment, she needs but a moment.

There are too many horses—and there, in the corner, is Abelas' nasty dracolisk—and not enough time, but whatever morsel she does have, Ellana puts toward unlocking the stalls. Some animals walk out immediately, others will rush out once the noise becomes unbearable. Either way, they will prove a nuisance.

"Smart," Zevran comments when at last she swings into the saddle behind him. He gives her hand an approving pat where it presses over his wound.

She keeps it there, fingers clutching the armor around it and palm restricting the bleeding. The smell makes her want to retch which is odd as she's been on the other end so many times that a few drops should hardly be enough to make her sway.

It's the fear of losing him, she realizes.

"Please," Zevran says, as if reading her mind. "Cousland and I took on an Archdemon with cracked skulls. I shall be just fine."

"Just the two of you?" she muses, because if she doesn't jest or say something stupid then she'll start hyperventilating.

"There may have been others. But mostly us."

The whole Keep is in uproar; no one knows what's happening but everyone is grappling for weapons. Such mayhem grants invisibility. They aren't the only ones on horseback or heading out. Others have already gone through to scout the perimeter.

And then the horses she freed decide to make a show, so of course they must be subdued and that requires more than one pair of hands.

Somehow, they make it past the gates.

Somehow, the guards there have been drawn away.

Somehow, Zevran immediately gets them utterly and completely lost in the surrounding forest and they end up following a river upstream to conceal Potato's tracks.

*

"Hold still, Zevran."

"I—ah—this isn't how I imagined getting naked in front of you, Inquisitor."

She ignores him, bunching his undershirt further up and pressing the makeshift bandage with ground elfroot to the wound. It is shallow, for which she is infinitely grateful. Still, it bleeds most nastily and her hands are slippery by now. Zevran looks more than a little pale, his golden skin ungainly sallow, though he fights against appearing weak.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I still don't have magic."

He waves her off which in turn makes him briefly wince. "I am as fit as a fiddle. Even Potato thinks so."

Potato grunts something unintelligible, too preoccupied with the last sugar cube to pay them any heed.

"Sure you are," she mutters, but there isn't much she can do at the moment.

Ellana lowers herself to the grass beside him and for a while all is silent. The subtle aftertaste of magebane lingers at the back of her throat, a repulsive memory more so than an actual flavor.

With Solas, she felt claustrophobic. But it was never as overwhelming as this potent dread. She chews on a remaining elfroot blossom, but it does nothing for her upset stomach. She feels like she is going to be sick again and again and again.

Zevran at her side, making lewd jokes and bleeding; Dorian in Tevinter, doing Creators know what and growing more solemn, more resolute to acquiesce to something horrible by the hour; Solas at her back, bitter to see his plan centuries in the making contested and fought against. All of them, she failed to help.

She rolls to her side. Zevran turns his head sideways in response, unable to mirror her.

"We are going to Tevinter," she says.

"I gathered as much," he says. Then adds, "Always did want to see the famed whorehouses of Minrathous."

She wants to move, to run, to put as much distance between them and Solas as possible. And she knows Zevran would push his limits and concede if she were to voice it, so she stays quiet.

He is so pale and desperately needs to sleep.

She suppresses the urge to fidget.

"Just an hour or two," Zevran mumbles, throwing an arm over his eyes.

She makes such a poor guardian, bereft of magic, a staff and a fully-functional arm. Perhaps she shouldn't have given in to hastiness. Perhaps she should have waited for Solas to replace the runes in her prosthetic and for the magebane to run its course.

This was impulsive and poorly planned, and now they're both paying for it.

Zevran's daggers rest in the dirt beside him and she grabs them, both to steady her trembling and to have at least a semblance of a weapon at the ready.

She doubts she could defend them from a mildly irritated halla, at the present, much less an actual forest beast or one of the patrols.

But no one comes and the woods are silent.

Her shaking recedes somewhat, though the whisper at the back of her mind does not go.

They need to leave the forest. They need to leave the forest. They need to leave the forest.

*

Of course, she expects it once it is her turn to rest.

She doesn't expect it to be like this, however.

She can barely see him and he can barely see her. The Fade is violent, swirling around them in an explosion of harsh colors. There's a rushing in her ears, and she can't even make out his moving lips as he speaks.

Finally, Solas snaps and their surroundings calm down somewhat. She can see the strain it puts on him to contain the anarchy around them, and feels a petty satisfaction.

"Get out," she says, slapping his wrist away when he reaches for her.

"I can hardly see you," Solas mutters, frowning. "The blood magic is interfering."

He steps forth and she steps back. At last he stops, conceding defeat and sighing. He chances a smile, too soft under the circumstances, but it only makes her scowl.

"Are you well?" he asks.

"Better than I have been in months," she retaliates.

He gives her a critical look over, taking in the sight of her bloodied clothes the Fade couldn't conceal. It isn't pliant to her whim, she is no Dreamer. He is, however, and still has trouble controlling it now that blood magic is in the mix—a small fact she delights in more than is wise.

"Cynicism does not befit you," he says conversationally. "Are you hurt?"

She doesn't deflate, but gives in this one time. "No," she says. "The blood isn't mine."

Solas nods. Only once. "I am glad." He circles her, but it isn't predatory; if anything, he wears the same look of confusion as she. This new angle allows her to see him better. "I suppose you would know who made a quarter of my Keep collapse," he remarks.

"Oh yes," she says.

"You must be very pleased," he says.

"You have no idea," she says.

She wants to beat that sly smirk off his face. As if he knows something she doesn't. Which wouldn't be far from the truth. He does, but not about this situation.

He tilts his head and she wants to punch him.

"I cannot spare the men to hunt you down," he says, "but I know you will be going to Tevinter."

She says nothing. It isn't a hard fact to guess.

"Tell me," he says, drawing closer, "how long do you think you will last out there, vhenan? The world is not as you remember. You did not see what happened after the Veil fell."

He thinks he's so good, that he has shielded her, that she needs protection—and not just any, but his. It makes her vision go red at the edges. Her hand balls into a fist. She needs but one reason, a single word, to hit him.

How can he be so nonchalant? She can barely contain her fury.

Patient. Always so infuriatingly patient.

She feels pulled apart at the seams.

"You always underestimate me," she says, "always."

He shakes his head again, sorrowful. His hands are clasped firmly at his back. "I promised I would not force you to stay after we were through with this ordeal," he says. "I kept much from you, but I did not lie about that."

"I don't care," she says. "I just don't care, Solas. You fed me magebane. Your words have no weight."

"I do not have a presence in Tevinter," he says, and the sincerity in his tone almost makes her waver. "You will be lost there."

"Good," she says.

She wants to be lost.


	26. This Broken World

"Well," says Zevran, "this is cute."

She doesn't know what to do.

The Inquisition saw her through much. An ancient darkspawn magister along with its enslaved red lyrium beast; an Avvar god bound to the form of a dragon and her predecessor encased in magic to chain it; an undead horse with a sword through its skull and an overly expensive treasure hunt for an enormous nug mount. So many oddities, and yet there is still room for bewilderment.

She saw spirits. A lot of spirits. She walked the Fade on three separate occasions—a giant middle finger to Tevinter magisters of old, if the deed is to be recounted later. Dorian would appreciate the analogy.

She never came across this many spirits, however. And they are not like Cole. They flicker between states, formless phantoms one second and an echo of corruption the next. Intangible and bright, all wailing, nearly half-mad.

She stumbles when an unassuming purple form curls on itself and rises as a semblance of a rage demon. But it does not spit fire or aspire to set her insides aflame. It is not even truly _real,_ in the physical sense. A wisp, nothing but thin air. If she were to reach for it, her hand would pass right through.

It mutters in a tongue she does not recognize and reverts to its previous, meek self.

She exhales in relief.

They show no intent of leaving any time soon, just wandering the clearing. The grass is sparse here, stomped—a beaten path. There is a road nearby, and now she does not know how they will reach it.

She doesn't want to go through the field of spirits.

She can't help but think that this is the reason Solas refused to give chase. He has a clear, safe path for him and his men through his eluvians. Braving the wilds swarming with unhinged spirits is sure to result in losses.

Even the horse is nervous, and Potato is usually so mild when he's not hating her without reason. He keeps trying to escape, pulling on the reins with enough strenght to force Zevran to dig his heels into the ground.

"We can go around," Zevran says, his free hand cradling her elbow.

That anchors her somewhat. She looks at him with wide eyes. Blinks a few times.

The detour is going to devour so much of their time; they both know it.

"Yes," she breathes. "It'll be fine."

That's a lie. Or maybe a half-truth. She has no idea whether they'll be even remotely close to fine. Zevran is still pale, game is scarce, and from where they stand it isn't hard to notice that the spirits aren't clustered in the clearing, some drifting away and getting lost amid the trees. They'll end up coming face to face with a fair number.

"What's wrong with them?" Zevran wonders.

A fair question.

Of course, she has no answer.

"I have no idea," she says.

Zevran shrugs. "At least, they're not attacking."

"Wait," she says, frowning.

It's barely a feeling, a tingling at the back of her mind. She stares at the sky, knowing there is nothing to be found—but once there was. There was a tear here, she knows. Ripples of energy, like scar tissue, remain seared into the air around them.

She tries to remember when exactly she came to seal it, but fails. It all became a blur at some point, the Hinterlands blending in with the Fallow Mire and Crestwood becoming one with the Storm Coast. Eventually, everyone stopped caring about locations.

"The sky was torn open here once," she says. "They must have come through then."

"And what does that mean for us?" Zevran huffs, struggling with an increasingly agitated Potato.

"I don't know," she mumbles, and takes a few steps back just in case. "They don't look hostile."

"Especially that big one with lava spurting from his mouth. He is just lovely."

"Give it a moment," she says.

Once more, the spirit changes form. Small homely, it disappears from view behind a great oak.

"Well, Potato isn't going through there," Zevran declares. Tired of battling his horse's whim, he loosens his hold on the reins and allows the animal to lead him away. "I suggest we listen to him."

She is wont to agree. Painstakingly, they go around, feet getting caught by roots and branches scratching every inch of exposed skin.

Her magic remains suppressed.

*

She desperately wants to see Dorian, but he hasn't come to her in weeks. Solas, in days. His prolonged silence makes her eye twitch.

And when he does intrude on her dream, it is with an aura of profound nonchalance. As if he just happens by. She doesn't have the time to protest as he leans in to press his lips to her forehead in greeting.

"There are no quarries in the region," he says. "Rebuilding the wall you brought down is proving very time-consuming."

"Still sore about that?" she asks.

Her head hurts, which is an odd sensation to have in the Fade. The blood magic toys with her vision. Solas is almost a shadow, though his voice is clear.

"Quite," he answers, biting into the word. "Fortunately, no one was injured during your little stunt."

" _Unfortunately_ ," she counters, "many were during _yours_. How contrary we are."

"I tire of your sarcasm," he says. "It is not a becoming shade on you."

"You are such a hypocrite," she says.

"I don't want to fight with you," he says, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. As if that alone could placate her. "You are scared, I understand. The world is a very different place now. It is—unstable," he settles on the right word at last.

She is. She is terrified, but it is not a victory she will allow him.

"You did this," she says, wishing she could jab her finger in his chest. "What were you thinking? Have you seen those spirits?"

He almost looks chastised, put in place, before his gaze hardens and he stares her down.

"It was never my intention," he murmurs. "It was not supposed to be like this. I miscalculated."

"Of course," she sneers. "That's all you do: mistakes."

"They are overwhelmed, at times violent," he continues, ignoring her attempt at provocation, "pulled out of the Fade and unable to return. They will adapt," he says, but he sounds uncertain. "It will take time."

"You don't know that," she says, and then a terrible realization grips her by the throat. "Gods, Cole. Did—did the same happen to him?"

Solas shakes his head. He doesn't know.

"Head West," he says. "You will find an eluvian within the ruins of a temple to June. I will activate it so you may return."

She stares at him in disbelief. Does he truly believe she will just roll over and die at the first sign of conflict, at the first obstacle? She never ran to Keeper Deshanna for help and she certainly won't run to him. At least not anymore, she thinks with a pang of nostalgic regret.

"No," she says. "Tell me how to get through them."

Solas smiles then but it doesn't reach his eyes. That soft curling of lips is a bitter mockery of what the gesture should be.

"Your magic has not returned yet," he says, indulgent. "Do not be foolish, vhenan."

"I will have it back soon enough," she says.

She hopes.

"I will not tell you," he says simply, so very simply, as if this is a trivial matter, as if she isn't stranded in a forest overrun by deranged spirits. "At any rate, there is no permanent solution other than time. They will just turn on you. Go West."

That sets something within her loose. In the Fade, she possesses more bravado than is wise. And she is always sure to throw it back in his face. He can do no more than listen, after all. She would never dare be this bold in the waking world.

She wants to tear her hair out or scratch his throat bloody.

"You were a visionary once, Solas," she says—screams. "Now, you are just a moron. You made nothing better, absolutely nothing. You ruined everything for everyone. Moron."

That earns her a genuine reaction. He looks unsure as how to respond.

"How childish," he comments, in the end. "Don't put yourself in needless danger and come back."

"You would know, hahren," she quips back. "You never did tell me your exact age, you know. I mean, I'm assuming you're not as ancient as the old gods but certainly an elder in comparison to most mountains."

His jaw clenches. He says nothing, waiting for her to exhaust herself.

She winks at him. "Atta boy. Iron Bull would offer you a high five for getting into the pants of someone so young—oh wait, he's dead so that's not possible."

"You have made your point," Solas says.

"Good," she says. "Now tell me how to get past the spirits."

"No," he says, "go West to the eluvian."

He is not going to give in. Despite the coolness of his facade, fury swirls just beneath his skin. He is beyond angry, and she isn't the sole culprit. Something happened. Something that made him stay away from her all those days. He has barely any endurance left.

She shakes her head. Once. Twice.

"Fine," she says, "that's fine. I don't believe they are dangerous, but if it's the case then I'll make a summoning circle and bind the most violent one there. It will make for a good guide, I daresay."

"You wouldn't," Solas says, and now he looks as terrified as she feels.

"Watch me," she says.

He opens his mouth and she thinks he is going to say something, to give in, but the Fade swirls and pulls her away from him. There is no use to even try to hold on to the dream.

She wakes to vaguely familiar giggling and Zevran's muttering. She rubs her eyes, yawns, and props herself on her elbow to watch him race from one end of their improvised campsite to the other. All while being chased by—something red? Yes, that's definitely red.

"What do you want?" Zevran squeals as the spirit finally succeeds in wrapping itself around him.

Recognition makes her squint.

"Mischief?" she asks, still groggy and voice hoarse.

"Helloooo," the spirit chants.

"I am not into this," Zevran announces, setting his foot down.


	27. Cracks Within

Coexisting with Mischief is—interesting.

Much less so for Zevran than it is for her, but curious nonetheless. Mischief is content living as a scarf around Zevran's neck, let it be in sleep or during their waking hours. It notices her of course, notices and likes, but doesn't go out of its way to make her life hell.

Surprisingly.

"He doesn't like me," Mischief complains when Zevran fails to respond to a rather forceful hair pulling.

"I'm sure that's not true," Ellana says, calling forth her softest tone. It's like dealing with a restless child. "We're all just tired."

"No one likes me," Mischief laments.

"I like you," she says.

"Oooh?" the spirit says. "You like me?"

"Yes, I like you," she acquiesces. Then adds, "Very much."

"Oooh," Mischief says, this time pensive.

It mauls over this new barrage of information, confused. As formless as it is, there's no way for her to know its emotions without hearing its voice. Scarves don't usually have faces to read.

She elbows Zevran gently in the side, mindful of the stab wound.

"Zevran likes you too," she says.

"No, he doesn't," Mischief grumbles.

Zevran is annoyed. Zevran certainly has no love to spare for the spirit hell-bent on singing in his ear and curling around him when he dozes off. Zevran is near the precipice of developing an eye twitch as a nervous tic.

But Zevran is also no idiot and understands what she's hinting at.

"Ah, yes," he says, and clears his throat. "You are a delight, my beautiful friend."

Mischief doesn't sound convinced.

"Oooh?" it questions.

"Oooh indeed," Zevran confirms, offering a magnificent eyebrow waggle.

And that night Mischief finally leaves him alone to rest. In the morning, he squeezes her hand in silent thanks.

That very morning, too, is when her arm fails completely. The fingers do not even twitch, and she knows it isn't for her lack of magic. It worked days ago, barely, arduously, slowly, but it did work. At this point it's nothing more than an odd extension of her missing limb, as heavy as it is bruising.

Her skin is speckled with black and blue.

The runes have lost the last of their faint glow.

She concedes defeat with an aching heart and undoes the clasps linking the prosthetic to her shoulder. The painful weight comes off and her body welcomes the relief, but she does not. She buries the arm deep into one of the side-bags hanging from Potato's saddle and refuses to think about what it means.

Potato is distrustful of Mischief so she is the one leading him. Zevran catches up to them and the horse huffs in disapproval.

"Indulge me," Zevran says. When she quirks an eyebrow, he quirks his own in return. "I am very bored," he explains. "I made an educated guess, mostly to needle you, but were the rumors true about—"

"I don't want to talk about it and I will gut you should it be brought up again," she says, voice too light, eyes fixated straight ahead.

She doesn't want to discuss Solas. She doesn't even want to think about him.

It still hurts to remember that he was lost to her before she even met him. That he allowed her to play her foolish game anyway. Before she knew the truth and even after.

Good gods, she climbed him like a tree and he took all of it, all her earnest affections, with unreadable, somber eyes and vague promises of nothing.

There's a bitter taste in her mouth and she feels very sad.

Zevran lets out an impressed whistle. "Whoa," he says. Potato stops and he shakes his head. "Not you, silly goose." Potato resumes his nonchalant walk. "Whoa—all right then," he says once more for drama's sake.

"Yeah," she says.

"Oooh," says Mischief.

"All right," repeats Zevran.

When he tries cover her hand with his in reassurance and apology, lighting crackles at her fingertips and he pulls back, hissing.

And then she's laughing, a little wildly, a little too loudly. She is ecstatic.

She wrestles his armor and undershirt off. Runs her cool palm down his side. The elfroot did a decent enough job of keeping infection at bay, but the wound is raw, purple at the edges. She is no healer—Solas was, and she forces herself to suppress the memory—but battle demanded she learn the basics.

Zevran is left with a bulging and ugly scar, but at least he no longer winces with every step.

He's also in no hurry to put back his clothes.

"So, here or in the bushes?" he asks, smile too broad. "You are sending me mixed signals, Inquisitor."

She pretends to consider his proposal and when her silence stretches on for far too long, a flicker of terror crosses his features.

"Keep your pants," she says.

"Your loss," he says, and works his shirt back on way, way too quickly.

*

She shuffles the dying embers with a stick.

"You know," Zevran says as he scrambles closer to her, movements made awkward by an increasingly agitated Mischief trying to undo the laces of his pants, "for what it's worth, the Comman—Abelas is wary of him."

She is more than slightly taken aback.

"Of Solas?" she asks.

"Whatever he calls himself," Zevran says, shrugging. "We've heard many names."

"Abelas is as loyal as a dog," she notes.

"I never put his loyalty on trial. I am simply stating that he is, shall we say, devoted but resentful." Zevran groans and tsks down at Mischief who quiets down somewhat. "Do what you will with that information."

"And he told you all of that?" she says, unable to keep doubt from coloring her tone. Now she sounds condescending.

"He didn't have to," Zevran says, "I can size people up rather well." He gives himself an exaggerated blow over the head. "Which reminds me—he isn't your biggest fan."

She rolls her eyes. "My heart is broken."

Resentful is the word which gets stuck at the back of her mind. Abelas could reproach Solas only one thing—his failure to save Mythal. The wound is still fresh for both even after so many ages. Her death tampered with Solas' sanity and made Abelas forever bitter. She wonders where this will lead them.

Centuries is a long time to carry shame, to harbor a grudge. Both will eventually fester into something twisted.

And the world is already so wretched as it is.

Mischief's unnaturally quiet voice rises above the crackling of the fire. It's not pestering Zevran anymore. It is still wrapped around him, but it looks almost like an embrace.

"I don't like him," the spirit whispers.

It burrows closer to Zevran's warmth and in return he attempts to hesitantly put his arms around it, but there is nothing to hold on to. Zevran lets them fall limply at his sides.

"I like you and you," Mischief says. The red wisp which floats between them is supposed to be something like a pointing finger, she supposes. "But not him," Mischief finishes.

"You don't like Solas?" she asks. "Or Abelas?"

"He doesn't like me," Mischief says, and for a moment it sound like it actually sighs—as if she's so very, very stupid. "The other one does like me, but I don't like him."

"My brain hurts," Zevran groans.

Hers does too, but she presses on.

Cole's love for complex, nonsensical metaphors and run-on sentences suddenly seems a much preferable alternative.

"Why?" she says.

"There is too much of him," Mischief says. It goes back to whispering, voice trembling. "Alive and dead and not whole. He is unnatural."

"That's not creepy," Zevran says, retrieving her discarded twig and turning to mend the fire.

"I am scared," Mischief continues, "but they are not."

"The other spirits?" she guesses.

"Yes, yes," Mischief mumbles. "They are not scared. They are lost. They should not be here, but they are and they can't go back. I was here before," it announces, sounding oddly proud.

She smiles. She hopes it's encouraging even though she feels like she might splinter any moment.

"I am scared," once more the odd affirmation breaks the silence, "but they are not. They hate, they hate, they hate so much."

When she opens her mouth again, Mischief becomes frantic. It refuses to answer any more questions. It wiggles its way beneath Zevran's shirt and settles over his heart, suddenly tiny.

Zevran tries to soothe it, unsuccessfully.

In the distance, the wailing of the stranded spirits never ceases.

None approach, but she knows now that they've been fooling themselves. Confrontation is unavoidable. There is no going around them.

She dreams and it is quiet.

Dorian doesn't come and neither does Solas.


	28. The Necromancer

This is Tevinter.

She sees it across the strip of water.

This is Tevinter and it is burning. But it is also alive with angry screams. Or maybe it's not voices at all but the wind, howling, snapping branches, whispering and whining into her ear to unsettle. A wordless tune.

Where the Veil was thin, survivors remained. A small mercy.

Where the Veil used to drape over the sky like a heavy shroud, there is nothing but scorched earth. Maybe it's dust under their feet, maybe it's ash.

She refuses to entertain the thought any longer than necessary.

Where the Veil was thick, spirits dwell. They mutter, they shift between shadows and corruption, they pay them no heed unless it is to draw close to her stump of an arm—and then they are fleeing. But she can feel their anger and so does Mischief who slithers beneath Zevran's shirt at every confrontation.

Something of Solas remains within her and they are repulsed by it. By her.

She wonders why Solas chose to stay so close to Tevinter.

She wonders many things.

The silence is unbearable.

"There is only one way into Minrathous," says Zevran.

His finger wanders until she's left staring at a distant point on the horizon—a single, looming bridge.

She thought she wanted quiet. Peace. But this is not peace. No Dorian. No Solas. No information. She is as stranded, as lost, as all the spirits the obliteration of the Veil forced out of the Fade.

"Better get moving then," she says.

Zevran nods, silent.

Neither of them like what they hear, but fail to see.

*

She wishes she had as many masks as he does. One for apathy, one for feigned sorrow, one for happiness. But all she has are raw emotions.

It makes her vulnerable. Stupid.

For the time being, she can't recall how to care.

Her hand curls into his collar, and it's a very long while before she realizes she's shaking. The Fade is particularly unkind today, the blood magic too fickle, too strong.

His touch doesn't feel real.

His features dissolve into a vague blur if he draws even an inch away.

She thinks he smiles. She is unsure.

He likes that she's touching him. His features soften and he tries kissing her cheek. She turns her head just in time.

He looks a little deranged. As if there are too many thoughts in his head, battling for dominance. But he stares at her and simply smiles once more.

"Have you found the eluvian?" Solas asks.

"What are you doing?" she asks. Her voice trembles so much. It is so ugly and hesitant. "What's happening in Minrathous?"

"You are near Minrathous?" he says, and then his hand, previously circling aimlessly the air about her face, shifts to grip her waist. "How—when—how long?"

He never stutters. Apprehension encourages her heart into an erratic rhythm.

His fingers dig into her ribs, find the hollows between. She winces, but does not retreat.

Weeks.

They haven't spoken in weeks.

He's lost track of time, and she is terrified at that realization.

"Are you in Minrathous?" she asks, wishing to know, equally dreading it. She has no chance of running if he's breathing down her neck.

Solas shakes his head, slowly. "I am not," he says. "It did not have to be like that."

At those words, he deflates. He slouches, his shoulders hunched and back unable to support some invisible weight. She sees the dark circles beneath his eyes and feels the tremors in his hands.

One palm slides up her side and his breath hitches before he settles on cupping her cheek. Innocent enough. He knows she won't allow him more.

Her skin crawls.

"If only you had talked to him," Solas says, looking right through her, "it all could have been avoided. He would have listened to you. He always did."

He is talking at her instead of to her. His words are sharp accusations even though he takes care to embellish them enough so she is fooled. The blame is hers, ever hers. He is the reasonable one and she the idiot pursuing chaos.

This passive stance of his doesn't last long. He straightens his back. Walks away from her.

"Dorian is a bloodthirsty fool," he says. "I offered him a way out and he threw it back in my face. Now, we both bleed for it."

All this time.

All this time she thought his avoidance of her to be some sick sort of power play, when in truth he and Dorian were busy being at each other's throats.

"Turn away from Minrathous," Solas says. "It is not your fight."

She laughs. She doesn't realize she's doing it until she's breathless. How can he think that?

"But it is," she says, quietly. No need for a grand explanation or colorful expletives. This is a very simple truth. He always knew where she stood.

"I do not have time for this."

And he finally snaps. His hand sneaks into her hair, finding purchase in the knots there, and he yanks her head backward. It is not painful or violent, just unexpected, but his hold is strong as he forces her to look at him.

"Wander the world or return and help me make it better, but stay away from Minrathous," he warns. "I will intercept you if you come any closer," he sneers, makes a choked little sound, "and you have made your disgust of me very clear, therefore I doubt you'd enjoy such a reunion."

He releases her and the tremors return. He steadies his hands by hiding them behind his back, an obsessive habit.

"Ir abelas," he says. "Even here, I am tired."

She says nothing. Dorian is in Minrathous.

That's all that matters.

"You are mad," she says.

"Not nearly as much as Dorian," he says. "Come back. There is nothing for you there."

He touches her lips. Swipes a thumb over the chapped skin. "You believe me a monster, but I am not the only one," he murmurs.

"I have no time," he repeats.

The Fade melts around them and she is left alone.

*

It takes a full day, but at last they reach the bridge.

When she looks down and discovers a forsaken elvhen blade, her blood runs cold. Abelas carries one such as it, she remembers. All Sentinels do. But there is no one to snatch her away as Solas promised. Either he underestimated how close she actually was or his was an empty threat.

She should have called his bluff.

The screaming has died out, but the city burns still.

The closer they get, the more of them she sees—Antivan frigates, crashed against the shores of the fortified island. The ports are aflame and burn brighter than anything she's ever seen. At times, it appears that even water proves insufficient to put out the inferno.

The ground is rocked by small explosions.

"Sweet Andraste," Zevran whispers at her side.

They walk in blood and step over corpses. This is not a battle; it's a massacre.

Unfortunate civilians with their throats slashed. Soldiers with no certain emblem and rusty swords. Sentinels and modern elves faithful to Solas, their intricate armor chipped and bent, bleeding out onto Minrathous' rocky ground.

Mischief is quiet. It adores causing trouble, but this is brutality. It is not its domain.

There is a small group up ahead and their heads snap at her approach with frightening coordination. Zevran raises his empty hands in a gesture of peace, but she can't do much more than squint. There is a figure at the center of the party and the others crowd the person in protection.

She feels a ripple of power, crawling through the ground, worming its way into every crevice, slipping past each stone. It rushes beneath her, and all at once the corpses rise.

There are no alliances in death. No rivalry. Elvhen and humans alike turn on them, marionettes held up by invisible strings while the puppeteer remains hidden from view.

Her mind blast is only strong enough to make them stagger. Without a staff to channel her magic, it is left running amok.

Zevran buries a dagger in the already hole-riddled stomach of a revenant. He yanks, ribs snapping as the blade travels upward. He only steps back once the corpse is all but cut in half, reduced to a beaten, bloody pulp at their feet.

So many dead.

So much arsenal.

She traps a few in a static cage and they fall, but it is not enough. She is tired. They have to run.

Someone from the group shifts. Just a step, just one. But it is enough.

She catches only a glimpse of his face before she's yelling her lungs raw. His name becomes an incoherence, a mantra, and she can't stop. She can't. And somehow she is laughing, maybe even crying a little, as she continues putting down the corpses he's raised.

The dead fall.

Zevran is panting, eyes wild, as he continues clutching his daggers. He looks at her as if she's gone completely insane.

"Dorian," she whispers.

And finally, _finally_ she sees him. He pushes past those intent on defending him. He is bloody to the elbows but she does not care, she can't, not even when he gathers her in his arms and roars his deafening laughter.

"This," she says when, at last, he pulls back enough for their eyes to lock, "I want to learn it."

"Oh yes, it beats the Rift Mage discipline any day. Much more grandiose," he says. And then he leans back in, presses their foreheads together and just holds her. "Ellana," he whispers.

She can breathe again.

For months, she's been starved for air and Dorian's presence infuses life into her lungs. She is no longer adrift.

The ground shakes.

She holds on to Dorian and Dorian holds on to her. It's a miracle they don't topple over.

The tongues of fire lap at the air around them, consuming it. Smoke rises. She presses her sleeve over her nose and mouth.

The stench of burnt flesh makes her want to retch.

Behind them, a frigate has crashed into the bridge. She can smell the gaatlok even as tiny explosions continue to shake bricks loose. It comes undone before her very eyes, the bridge with its decorative dragons of bronze plummeting into the swarming water below.

Flames devour the Antivan sails. She blinks and it is as if the bright fabric never existed.

There is only one way into the city, Zevran told her.

"Minrathous withstood the Chantry itself and centuries of sieges," Dorian hisses at her ear. "I will not lose it to him. He can have the rest of the world, but not this."

She doesn't know what to say.

She looks at the dead Elvhen—Sentinels, no less —and at the Antivan ships.

That is a lot to sacrifice. And for what? If Solas wants Minrathous so bad, why doesn't he just walk in himself and turn all to stone?

The imagery is disturbing. She wants to be brave so desperately, but that quality of her character is too fractured.

"While we are marooned here, come help me shave," Dorian says, and scratches his jaw with bloody fingers.

The grime beneath his fingernails has long dried, but the skin is wet and sticky.


	29. Here, Now, Then

She doesn't have the time to properly assess the brutality of the attack because, all at once, Zevran is yelling.

"WYNNE!" he screams, and the strain put on his vocal cords sends him into a coughing fit. Still, he does not relent.

He's all but forgotten the rest of the world.

She can't fault him. The sight of others has dimmed now that Dorian is here; she can't let go of his hand.

Zevran's daggers clatter to the ground so his arms are free to catch an older human woman about the waist. His laughter is thunderous as he spins her while her soft objections, interlaced with little chuckles, fail to stop him.

Dorian ushers her away, but not before all are greeted to the sight of Zevran divesting himself of his shirt.

"Look at this scar," he says, striking a pose. "I got it protecting the Inquisitor, I'll have you know."

When he winks at her, Wynne lets out an exasperated sigh. They discuss socks, of all things, as she leads him to a collapsed column which has found a new life purpose as a makeshift bench.

"Sit down," she says. "I will make it go away."

"Only if you insist," Zevran says.

"Hush," she says, waving a hand to silence him. A tender kiss is pressed to his cheek. "It is nice to see you too."

Dorian is orderly in his actions. He talks little. He keeps looking over his shoulder as if to make sure that she's still there; a habit she shares. She almost forgets the broken bridge, the corpses loitering the streets, and the blood beneath his fingernails, staining the front of his shirt.

She wonders what he did after the Veil burned.

*

"Stay put," she says.

Dorian leans back into his chair, hands folded atop his sternum. They tremble. It is subtle, barely there, but every so often one or the other will jump and he'll clench his thigh to settle it. His fingers drum an absentminded staccato over his chest as he watches her.

There will be time for terrible truths. Later. For now, this calms them both.

She works a thick lather with the soap—as thick as the lack of an arm allows—and spreads it over his several day old beard. She can barely see the outline of his signature mustache; this is going to be an improvised ordeal.

Dorian closes his eyes and sighs.

"I was going to come for you," he says, briefly catching her wrist as the razor hovers above his cheek. "Then," he grimaces, eyes still shut, lips curling into a sneer, "this happened."

When he releases her, the mark is gone and he looks less burdened. She stares at the pale flesh of her wrist. She doesn't even feel any different.

"And what exactly is _this_?" she asks.

She almost nicks him. Almost.

He doesn't answer. He tilts his head back to allow for easier reach.

"Dorian," she says, "what did Solas offer you?"

She is not so foolish to believe it was anything worth accepting. Deals with Solas are always double-edged swords. But she is curious. He mentioned wanting her to speak to Dorian on his behalf—surely it was about this, whatever it is.

Someone is very determined, she thinks, or very desperate.

Dorian huffs. "What does he always want, Ellana?" he asks, his voice a mocking lilt. "Fall back. Get lost, for all intents and purposes. Leave Minrathous far behind and retreat to some faraway corner of the world."

"You do know he's close," she says. "I could point you in his direction."

"I know," and the admission seems to break him.

Dorian groans. He wipes the last of the soap off with his still-bloodied sleeve and buries his face in his hands. He glances at her through parted fingers.

"But?" she prompts, softly.

She sits next to him. Dorian draws lazy circles on her skin with remaining foam from the bowl she still holds.

"This is it," he breathes, "this is all we have. There are no reinforcements coming, Ellana. All the men who awaited our word are dead."

She cringes at that. She should confess. Right here, right now. Her fault, entirely her fault as everything always is when it comes to Solas.

And Dorian would forgive her. In a heartbeat. Without even blinking.

She doesn't deserve that, so she stays quiet.

"At least, we still have Minrathous," he says, and goes to stand. There is too much hope in his tone.

He nearly topples over then and she has to bear his weight. Her mana mingles with his, probing, and finds it waning. He is so tired.

She wants to ask why Minrathous is so important, but Dorian starts coughing.

She wants to ask why he and Solas both sacrificed so many for a city built on a rocky island, but the door is pushed open and a nug barges in, a blue ribbon wrapped around its throat instead of a collar.

The little animal just sits there, chewing at the carpet. Rich thread comes undone under its flat teeth, effectively destroying the last bit of luxury left in the mansion.

She looks at the nug and the nug looks back at her, unblinking.

What is this even.

"Ugh," says Dorian, and proceeds to pick up the anointed bunny-pig—his words, not hers—and kiss it on both cheeks.

She actually gasps.

"Dorian," she exclaims, a hand over the heart, "you have a nug?"

He purposefully avoids her gaze, but his eye roll is magnificent. Just like the scowl he gives her when at last he does look up, the nug pressed tightly to his chest, its rear legs aimlessly kicking at the air and belly exposed to the world.

"No," he says with perhaps a bit too much spite, though none is addressed to her. Dorian catches sight of his reflection in a cracked mirror and dramatically shakes his head. He heaves a great sigh before confessing, "I have three."

"You are so ugly," he says, kissing the nug again. Quick pecks to both of its ears. "Your paws scare the love of the Maker out of me."

"Eek," says the nug and yawns.

"Wow," says Ellana.

"Don't ask," Dorian mutters, heading toward the open door, still holding on to the nug. "We're going to sleep for a little while. I'm keeling over."

"We?" she calls after him, teasingly.

"Shut up," he answers, flipping her the bird with his free hand on the way out.

There are probably beds beyond counting, but she curls up in the chair still smelling of Dorian and allows herself a respite.

This is home.

The home she has left. How the definition has changed.

*

"I will never understand why you insist on keeping this monstrosity," Solas says.

"Is that haughty racism or the wounded pride of a closet decorator talking?"

Solas gives her a cross look, the scar between his eyebrows deepening.

"It's about practicality," he says. "Besides, it is tiny. Nothing about this is comfortable."

He appears intent on staring down the bronze statues of the two Qunaris frozen mid-motion as if trying to drag her bed away. Their faces are eternal masks of scorn, and for a moment Solas' own expression almost mirrors theirs.

He tiptoes around them.

"You dislike my bed, I take it?" she asks, smiling provocatively at him as he comes to sit at the edge.

"I detest it," he agrees. "How are you not frightened half to death whenever you wake?"

"Ah, well you see, the sight I am greeted with is a little different. I gaze upon their muscular backsides, and it fills me with joy," she says, crawling a little closer to him.

When he still remains on the edge, she nudges him with her foot and he joins her properly.

"Clearly," Solas says.

He sits cross-legged and it's somewhat of an odd sight. A rare opportunity to witness his flexibility, something she wasn't even aware he possessed. He is always so tense, every muscle reduced to hard granite.

"Oh," she says, blinking rapidly when he sets a chessboard between them, "you actually brought it."

Solas blinks back, a little confused. "Of course," he says, slowly. "You said you wanted to improve your tactics so you may beat the Commander."

"Solas, I cheat. I don't need a master class for that."

"And yet you still lose," he remarks. "Always."

She nudges him again and this time he catches her foot. For a second he just holds it, and she thinks he is about to massage out that stubborn knot she's had lodged beneath her heel for weeks, but his hands travel upward and he pinches her ankle instead. She yelps and he sets free one of his laughs, a little snort, a little giggle, some peculiar beast.

"Black or white?" he asks.

"White," she says, sighing.

He bats her hand away with a smile when she reaches for the pale pieces. "No," he chides. "Learn to win without the advantage of the first move."

"Very well, hahren."

He winces a little at her words. "Please, don't call me that," he requests, voice smaller than before.

"I'll consider it," she says, and grips the chessboard to fling it across the room.

His eyes follow the erratic flight of the expensive pieces carved from dragonbone. Some crash against the intricate glasswork in the fashion of Orlais, and she cringes at the sound. But nothing is broken and she is reassured enough to climb into his lap.

His hands briefly skim up and down her sides before resting at her waist.

She waits.

She doesn't know why she does, but she can't help herself.

She can't be the one always making three steps forward while he takes two back. It's disheartening. She doesn't want to chase or be chased. She only wants for him to meet her in the middle.

She gives his shoulder a light smack.

"Stop," she says.

"Stop?" he questions, craning his neck to brush her wrist with his lips.

"Stop always looking so sad," she says.

It is always something. The smallest things push him away. He talks, but does not listen. Kisses her forehead but never trails down to meet her mouth. And she does not know how much more of his polite rejections she can take.

She just wants to be wanted. He calls her vhenan, but never stays.

There has to be more than this constant, tiring game of tug of war.

"I am not sad," he says, affectionately running his nose up her throat.

She wants the precise account of how he came to have it broken. She wants details. Mundane, unimportant, casual details. Something about why his stitches are so bad when he clearly should have mastered the skill of sewing, being an apostate on the run from the Templars with no more than a handful of coppers to his name. She wants to stick thread through a needle and show him how to make it so his clothes don't fall apart within a week. She wants the easy intimacy other lovers, even new ones, take for granted.

"Dorian is quite the accomplished cheat too," he says. His tone is light, but some note is odd, a chord falsely struck. "You two deserve each other."

"Hmm," she says, fingers tracing the shell of his ear.

She doesn't see his face when he speaks next.

The colors are too vibrant.

"What is he doing?" Solas asks. His hand rubs the small of her back, but never drifts lower. "What is he doing right now, Ellana?"

It's a little hard to talk. A little hard to think. Curdled, leaden thoughts prove too great a burden to properly mold and cram within the trunk of her mind. She lets them overflow.

Trivialities? She thinks of the discarded chess pieces. Of the brilliant colors.

Her tongue is too heavy in her mouth and the edges of her vision blur.

A thick fog prevents the gears of her mind from rotating properly.

Her fingers cease their roaming. She doesn't know why she's staring at the window—at the calm, bright sky peering through the Orlesian glasswork. Her little world, confined to the four walls of her frivolous bedrooms with antiques from all over the continent, is very colorful for it as midday light takes on different shades after streaming through the tinted glass.

"He—ah—he," she swallows, "he is napping with his nug."

She tastes the words, but can't hear them.

"I see," Solas, and something in the way his jaw is set betrays discontentment. "Is he any different?"

She frowns. Her lips move and her chest feels constricted. She wants to claw her heart out and she doesn't know why.

"Different?" she asks, beginning to pull away. "Why—why—what did you ask?"

Solas smiles and it calms her down. "I asked if you planned on cheating again," he says, very slowly. "Soon enough, you conspirators will find a way to fool our dutiful Commander. That will be a sad day for moral victory."

His kiss is soft where it meets the underside of her jaw, and at once he's pushing her off.

"Perhaps," he says, flicking his wrists to bid the chess pieces a swift return, "we ought to play a little."

She feels dejected and pulls one of the thick covers around herself. She watches him reposition the pawns and knights on the board the way they were before she disturbed their quiet. His queen stares down her bishop; he will put her down with a checkmate within a few turns, she doesn't even know why he insists on continuing.

She makes a few disinterested moves, only vaguely aware of the pile of slain black soldiers gathering by Solas' thigh. Her faithful, little army betrayed by its dispassionate general. She really ought to make an effort, but can't find it within herself to care.

This is quite telling, she thinks, that he is more preoccupied with the game and the thick tome he's brought, even now resting in his lap, than her.

You should go, she thinks but does not say it.

She feels him take her hand, weave their fingers together.

"I have missed this," he says, thumb rubbing hurried circles into her skin. "I like it when you smile."

"I always do," she says, perplexed. "I couldn't stop yesterday, when Dorian nearly bludgeoned Varric to death for setting that litter of wild nugs loose on him."

Something about Dorian. Something about nugs. She can't draw the parallels and abandons the conflicted train of thought.

"It is good to know they've found a home in the stables," he says.

She smiles. Scoots closer, encouraged when he doesn't bolt as he usually does.

"Blackwall needs a hobby anyway," she says, shrugging. "As long as he doesn't start an underground nug racing ring, I say let him have them."

"That would be a spectacle," Solas agrees.

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, and she adores that.

"You never kiss me first anymore," she whispers.

It shouldn't be like this. The thought returns and this time it is ugly and twisted. He meets her halfway, the tip of his nose bumping hers. Something so casual, so lovely. Perhaps this is the limit, she thinks, perhaps this is where he grasps at his fleeting countenance and mends the frayed edges of his control.

She pushes him down, ignoring his huff of surprise. Feather-light kisses up his jaw and behind his ears; gentle touches to his chest; the subtle grind of her hips against his. He never admits to it—not even when she catches him tracing patterns along her spine in the dead of night—but he is starved for touch.

And she has so much to give, but he never asks.

So she kisses his lips and eyelids, murmurs pleasant nonsense into his skin as she nips at the thin flesh at his clavicle. She lavishes his throat with attention the way he does hers, but he is sensitive in different spots and it is interesting, delightful.

When she looks up, she sees he's draped an arm over his eyes. As if willing himself very hard not to look at her. As if the sight could prove enough to shatter or undo him.

It's something she can't banish: his face in her hair, his lips on her neck when he turns her or tightly pressed to her pulse point so she is left looking over his shoulder.

She pulls his arm away by the wrist.

"You always do this," she says. "Why?"

His answer is a huff. Hot air crashes against her face as he scrunches his eyes shut again.

Fingertips that smell of elfroot. That taste of it, she discovers, as she gives his index a playful lick. A flavor dulled by years of ordinary uses is no longer simple.

She wonders if he can taste it when she aligns her mouth with his and just stays there, not kissing, not talking, only breathing. His hand tangles in her hair and he combs his fingers through; the repetitive monotony of the gesture slows down his breathing.

She feels him between them, eager even as he is silent, and bunches up his shirt.

He is wanted. He is wanted so very much. How can he still not see it?

She kisses a path down his stomach, feeling him go rigid, and dips one hand beneath the waistband of his trousers.

He snaps to attention. He drags her up by the shoulders and flips her so he is on top. And when he does kiss her, it is soft, his tongue a timid little thing as it flickers over her lower lip before delving in.

"You are loved," he whispers. "You are so loved, vhenan, and nothing is your fault."

She frowns. Grips him by the collar, but he is already disentangling himself from her.

There's a chess piece poking her in the thigh and she only now notices it. A knight, judging by the sharpness.

He looks ridiculous with his horrid, torn sweater and a deep blush along the cheekbones. But he breathes—a deep exhale which rattles her bones—and turns away.

"Where are you going?" she asks when his hand begins fiddling with the doorknob.

"I will be back," he says.

He will not.

She doesn't know it—instead, something within her does.

It's not a calculated guess inspired by experience; it feels more like deeply-rooted knowledge. The door closes and she is filled with dread.

There is nothing behind that door, she knows.

She dares not open it. Not even to prove herself wrong.

And the sky, it is too bright. It should be stormy, some distant voice whispers. It sounds like her own. The same voice that got silenced—forgotten—when she questioned his interest with—with—with Dorian?

She presses her palms to the colorful glass, trying to leech off the warmth it has surely drawn from the sun.

Palms.

She doesn't have two palms anymore.

And he left.

This is not how this ends, she thinks. He does not walk away. He stays and pulls off her clothes just as she tears at his. This is a wrong—memory? No. A wrong version of the memory.

The Fade dissolves into a dull nothingness, and she remembers herself.


	30. Everyone's Invited

The one called Wynne invites her to walk the ramparts. The ramparts, Ellana soon discovers, are not the final destination as she ends up being led into Minrathous’ market square where wounded and newly departed lie separated by breath alone.

“It is good to have another mage,” Wynne says. “Our healers have not slept in many days and herbalists are unfortunately unable to assist.” The once smooth pavement is now cracked, giving way to dust, and Wynne traces a line with her foot. “We have been here a while,” she sighs in way of explanation.

“We have to talk,” Dorian grumbled before leaving for the underground tunnels stocked with supplies meant to last a year.

She doubts he’ll find more herbs, but they have to bring the reserves to the surface or risk going hungry very soon.

After setting a few popped joints straight, she allows herself to ask.

“You and Zevran were with the Hero of Ferelden,” she says.”How was it?”

Wynne coos some soothing words as she sends a wave of healing magic through a man’s arm; the limb holds on for dear life, hanging limply from a fractured shoulder. The soldier passes out and she cradles his head with both hands to soften the fall.

“Pardon the melancholy,” Wynne says, “but there was less death during the Blight.”

Her technique is graceless, but Wynne seems happy to have another pair of helping hands. Eventually, however, she does stop her by gently taking her wrist.

“If you are willing to learn, I will happily teach,” Wynne murmurs. Her smile, the softest thing, refuses to be dethroned by the blood and gore which form their surroundings.

It’s such a simple thing, her offer, but she feels an unexpected giddiness flood her insides. It is a warm feeling, a tender one. This is a choice—it is deplorably unhealthy how much she’s missed those. Solas played a game of two. If her initial request proved ludicrous, he introduced new options to pick out from. Not an outright denial but on his terms nonetheless.

This feels liberating. She’ll be able to help, at last. Not as a figurehead or the Herald of a long-dead prophet. Perhaps the skin of her palm will harden, but it is infinitely better. It will come from her—and not from the Inquisition with its ambassadors.

Certainly not from Solas.

She can’t think of him. Her vision goes red.

“Yes,” Ellana says, perhaps a little too quietly, “I would like that very much.”

“Very well,” Wynne says, her warm hand wrapping around hers. “Let us sit.”

*

He finds her very quickly. As soon as she sees him, she has to turn away. She can’t look at him.

“How could you?” she asks. “Is there nothing you hold sacred?” Her tone isn’t the quiet, intimidating thing she’s practiced in the real world. It bounces off the lonely stones of whatever place they’re in. An elvhen temple, by the looks of it.

Patterns of vines have been carved into the collapsed marble columns eons ago. The ground rushes up a little more each year in its quest to swallow the site of worship whole. In the midst of it all, Solas looks like he belongs. A being from a past age who fights against crumbling.

“I apologize,” Solas says. He raises his hands in a halting gesture as she turns on him. Her temper temporarily on a leash, he feels free to continue. “I needed to know.”

“Know what?” she demands.

“That particular memory is very dear to me,” he goes on as if her words were air and nothing more, entirely devoid of meaning. “I am sorry to have tarnished it for you.”

She will not reminisce. Not again. Not with him. This is a vicious circle, a dangerous spiral—all the morbid idioms combined and nothing even remotely relating to softness. She won’t let him rip out yet another piece of her; her stitches are already coming apart as it is at the mere sight of him.

It is when his expression shift and genuine surprise colors his tone that she knows. He did not expect to find her still in the dark.

“He did not tell you?” Solas asks.

He steps closer and she has no escape route. When he takes her hand, she makes sure to dig her nails into his skin. As painfully as she can manage.

“What are you talking about?” she says.

He looks too sincere. As if he’s about to confess another’s secret. Those are easy to reveal and he’s often turned to that strategy to avoid light being shed on him.

“What do you think dwells deep underground, vhenan?” he asks. “Aside from darkspawn, blessed defenders of a creature with a heart of lyrium and the occasional nug?”

“You’ve named the full list,” she says.

Solas shakes his head, ready to lecture. It is a nod sterner than most. How easily he slips between personas, but she will not play the pupil to his teacher this time.

He doesn’t draw it out.

“Your friend believes he’s found an Old God,” he says.

The statement is announced so plainly that at first she doesn’t understand. Things were always easier for him in the Fade, but that was never the case for her. It takes a moment to concentrate fully. She isn’t sure whether to laugh, roll her eyes or back away.

“That can’t be true,” she says.

Darkspawn find Old Gods. They do and then a Blight starts. It’s the way of things.

“But it is,” Solas says.

Her teeth are busy worrying her lower lip. In retrospect it almost makes sense. Dorian’s obsession with Minrathous. His desire to explore the underground tunnel network whenever possible, if only by staring at a map. The conflicted look he gave her this morning. He is going to tell her when he returns, she knows, but it still stings that he couldn’t find it in himself to share something this immense sooner.

And she is worried.

The nagging unease morphs into fully-fledged fright as she takes in Solas’ expression.

“You believe it,” she realizes. “You think he really did find one.”

Oh Creators, Dorian.

She turns away. She has to wake up.

Then it doesn’t really matter what he thinks or what her thoughts on the matter are, because suddenly the Fade shifts and he’s behind her. She feels his arms sneak around her waist and she can’t help it, can’t disentangle herself or push him off. One hand finds the taut muscle of her diaphragm and presses down. All breath leaves her and she’s left fighting for each inhale.

“Listen,” Solas entreats, “please listen. Don’t run again. I am desperate, yes. The world is not what I thought it would be. It is all wrong, but I am trying to piece it back together. I have brought misery to so many and that is not a hurt I can remedy. I do not seek absolution nor believe I deserve even a morsel. But I can make it better, I have that power. Dorian pursues madness, you must see that. I cannot allow it.”

He says what she dares not admit aloud. Her blood boils, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of echoing his thoughts.

“Please, vhenan,” this time it is but a whisper, pressed alongside a kiss to the crown of her head, “do not make me enter the city.”

“Why?” she asks.

The lone word is enough to convince him she’s listening. His grip loosens, though he does not let go.

“What is an Old God if not a parasite,” Solas says, morose. He sounds very spiteful. “When awoken, it latches on to the strongest host it can find, hence the Archdemons. What do you think the outcome might be if I were to be there?”

Solas is infinitely more powerful than a dragon. His magic is old and it sings. She feels herself freeze at the realization.

“You’re afraid of being possessed?” she asks, skeptical. It sounds stupid when put like that. “All you said, theories and nothing more. We don’t even know what the Old Gods are.”

Though it does explain his determination to stay away.

“It is a possibility,” he says. “Either way, no good shall come out of this endeavor. The likelihood of a Blight or a chance for the ancient beast to try on a new body. Rather high stakes, wouldn’t you say?”

Too high, yes.

Solas is sensible. He values his People. He would seek to protect them at all costs.

It only serves to worsen the pain of memory. He was ready to accept her death if it meant resurrecting a lost Empire. His allegiances were never with her, not a single day, not even when he pressed words of adoration to her naked skin.

“Your supplies will not last,” his voice reaches her, “and I will bury Minrathous along with the rest of Tevinter.”

“What is your obsession with destroying cities?” she says.

This new knowledge is suffocating.

Everyone has gone mad.

Solas pretends not to hear her. It’s like he has an endless vault inside his head to store away all her provocative quips. It takes so much to see him break.

“Allow me to send a boat for you. Don’t be a martyr for a worthless cause.”

And then he’s kissing her neck. There is something very raw in the way he touches her, as if, for the first time, the Fade and its everlasting glory are not enough for him.

“Foolish, brave soul,” he murmurs, “don’t make this city your tomb.”

She realizes he’s taken her prolonged silence for consideration, if not bitter acceptance. His lips feel as if  curved in a hesitant smile as he lowers them to her shoulder, and when he tugs at the fabric to slide it further down, she breaks.

“Don’t touch me,” she says. “You will take your hands off me immediately.”

The twisted memory is still fresh in her mind. Days spent trying to break through his shell paired with innocent kisses. She has better ones, as far as snippets of their shared past go, but she understands why that one is so very special to him. Teasing, affection, but more than that—acceptance.

She can see he’s still holding on to it even now, remembering the chess pieces and the gentle nudging of her foot as he steps into her field of view once more.

And she has no strength to claw his eyes out as promised. They’re both starved for much more than what they have.

“I want what you offered Dorian,” she says. “You can destroy Minrathous. You can take the whole of Tevinter. I don’t care. Just let us leave.”

He hesitates a moment too long.

Her people are not people at all to him. He cares little for their survival. It is sick that in a world full of life he saw her as the only real thing while evidence of such a dysfunctional concept of reality just begged for him to notice it. But because she cared and loved, the rest could just not compete.

“Raise your barrier and let us live in our corner of the world,” she adds, a little desperately.

Confusion spreads across his features. “What barrier?” he asks.

“Don’t play coy. I saw your diagrams. Plus Dorian told me you mapped out the terrain.”

“Ah,” he says, “so the snooping around paid off. However, I am still at loss. I intend to raise no barrier. Why would I cut myself off from lands with valuable resources?”

Why indeed.

He’s pointed out the fatal flaw in Dorian’s theory and now she knows even less than before.

“What he saw,” Solas continues, “is indeed an outline, but it is meant to serve as a crushing prison for Tevinter. Interesting guess, nonetheless.”

He looks very much the intrigued scholar who just had his argument questioned by an arrogant student.

“Even so,” he says, “Dorian will not agree. You have to return.”

“He will listen to me,” she protests.

He opens his mouth as if to argue, but snaps it shut immediately. He huffs and the Fade around them begins to melt. She panics, stepping closer to him, the only familiar thing.

They intrude on Dorian’s own dream, then.

It’s disorienting. She can taste his alarm.

“Ellana,” he utters, unsure, before noticing the figure at her side.

“No need for pleasantries,” Solas says, waving his hand to disperse the crackling fire gathering in Dorian’s palm. “Will you leave the city?”

Dorian’s sneer is a thing of beauty.

“For the third time, I am afraid not,” he says, sounding more casual than she expected.

Her eyes dart between the two of them and she frowns.

“Wait,” she says, slowly, “this is a regular thing?”

Her head hurts. This is beyond ridiculous.

Neither chance offering an answer for a very long time before Solas breaks the silence with a sigh.

“He is unreasonable,” he says. “And you are stubborn. You do not trust me so I saw it fit to show you.”

She is going to laugh. And then she’ll get an eye twitch. Maybe both at the same time.

“I am not playing dream intermediary between the two of you,” she snaps. “Solas, fuck off. You’ve done enough. Leave us alone.”

“Leave the city,” he counters.

“I believe she offered you to fuck off,” Dorian remarks, admiring his nails.

She throws Dorian The Glare. Not just a look, but the dirtiest she can manage. She will have it out with him, but later. It wouldn’t do to appear divided.

“Do not push me,” Solas warns, and it is addressed to both of them. “I have kept my distance, but I will enter Minrathous and put an end to this with my own hands if you are still there, vhenan.”

As opposed to burning it to a crisp from afar.

She can’t decide if it’s a mercy or a threat.

She can’t help it, she looks at Dorian. She doesn’t want Solas anywhere near the Old God, if it even exists.

The Fade feels different once again, and suddenly the colors seem brighter. There wasn’t a door there before, she thinks after blinking a few times, as she stares at the widening crack while it is being pushed open.

“Dorian, I’ve been having trouble locating you,” a gentle voice she knows all too well by now says.

Feynriel freezes when all eyes fall on him. He takes two awkward steps back, but the door is gone and he can’t seem to conjure his way out of Dorian’s dream by other means. He looks terrified at the realization that the Fade is being petulant and refuses to listen to him.

But it isn’t the Fade, she knows.

Solas rounds on him and it’s been too long since she’s seen such eager enthusiasm in his eyes. He bleeds fascination.

“A Dreamer,” he says, approaching the young man. “You are of the blood. Falon, you waste your talents.”

“Don’t touch him!” Dorian and she exclaim in perfect unison.

“I am human,” Feynriel mumbles.

He sidesteps, eyes never leaving Solas as though turning his back to him would result in a dagger being buried in his own, until he’s at their side. She steps in front of him, fully intent on making herself a shield.

“There are not many of us,” Solas says. “Your gift is a rare one.”

“Hands off my Somniari,” Dorian growls.

The veil lifts from Solas’ face. He shakes off his interest before speaking.

“Would I be correct in assuming you helped them communicate?” he asks Feynriel.

Feynriel says nothing. He’s retreated so deep into himself that all he can do is stare at his hands.

“Interesting,” Solas concludes. “And clever.”

“Leave,” she says.

The harshness of her tone makes him wince. He inclines his head in acceptance. She is glad he doesn’t try to reach out to her because right now he is the more sensible party and she can’t allow herself to be swayed.

“Think on what I have said,” he says.

She sincerely hopes she won’t have to decide between two evils out of which none seem to be the lesser.

The instant she wakes, Ellana races to Dorian’s room. Her bare feet smack the cold stones in rapid succession, heralding her rather angry arrival. She slams the door open, discovering muddy boots by the rug. He must have returned from the tunnels less than an hour ago.

She tears the covers off Dorian’s curled frame.

He tries to wave her off like an annoying insect.

The three nugs nestled under yet another cover stare at her. They all have ribbons of different colors around their necks.

“I am going to murder you,” she tells him.

Dorian yawns. He sits up and gathers the nugs in his lap.

“Not in front of the children,” he says.

She smacks him over the head with a pillow.


	31. Where It Is Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I'm fucking around with the whole concept of catacombs beneath Minrathous. Taking some creative liberty to suit the plot.
> 
> Omfg let's just all bow down to the beautiful sketch [Eden](http://e-denoir.tumblr.com) made of the [Fade scene](http://e-denoir.tumblr.com/image/142564208187) *runs away flailing*

"Aren't we the most delightful bunch?" Zevran says.

She is sure someone is going to stab him at some point. And not only once, too. To the liver, both kidneys, and possibly even the groin. He's funny until he's not, and everyone's on edge.

She loves him, but she will be the one to take the knife to his pretty face if he doesn't shut up soon.

"A woman twice dead,"—a kiss in passing to Wynne's cheek—"the sexiest, hottest Necromancer dabbling in ancient magic,"—a high-five exchanged with Dorian—"you, whoever you are, my kittens,"—the lewdest, most suggestive of winks to two abashed soldiers trailing along to balance out their all-mage-and-one-annoying-spirit-oh-and-that-loud-rogue party—"our darling Inquisitor"—he makes a show of trying to pinch her backside and at this point she's wont to let him if only it'll guarantee silence—"and of course _me_."

"Hush," says Wynne. The frost gathered in her palm suggests she'll freeze his mouth shut if he doesn't quiet down; even her saintly patience is at its last tether.

"You forgot me!" Mischief wails.

"I have not," Zevran counters. "You are the heart of the party, little rascal."

His previous annoyance with the spirit is all but forgotten as he pretends to tickle its sides. In return, Mischief also pretends to be ticklish. It's weird. It's weird and nothing else. His fingers pass right through the scarlet light composing its body, and yet Mischief floats away with a chorus of loud _hi hi hi's_.

The only reason she is here is to keep Dorian from committing something irreversible and awful, though she isn't sure she'll have it in her to actually confront him with anything other than words if it comes to it.

"I can't allow this," she told him. "As Inquisitor, I simply can't. It's too dangerous."

"Then banish me or help me, but I will not step down," Dorian had growled back. "This is a unique opportunity."

And here they are. At each other's throats, deep beneath Thedas' largest city.

The tunnels beneath Minrathous seem endless, but they are not like the Deep Roads. Along the way, she wrenches a beautiful, ancient staff from a skeleton's embrace. The grip is encrusted with decorative gems and it sings pleasantly in her hand.

When she tries it out, it is eager to respond and nearly burns off the front of Dorian's robes. She decides she loves it well enough and gets rid of the novice atrocity Wynne was able to procure for her. It's worth nothing, really, and anyone can make a better staff than the blunted mockery of a weapon Circle apprentices received. It's simply all they had to spare so she was forced to accept.

Dorian puts out the flames within a minute, but it's perversely satisfying watching him hop from one foot to the other while huffing and puffing. She's only sad she didn't get to burn off his mustache.

"Whatever is the matter," she says, brushing past him, feigning ignorance in an attempt to provoke his ire.

Dorian can be as passive-aggressive as her, if not more, and there's really no telling how far this feud of theirs will escalate.

Maybe she'll threaten to take his nugs away.

"Still angry?" he drawls.

"Why would I be angry?" she says. "Because you seek to wake an Old God and bring about a new Blight? Nah, I'm cool with that. Aren't the rest of you thrilled? Wynne? Zevran? Kittens? Mischief?"

The soldiers shift uncomfortably. Wynne has too much self-respect to intervene in what is obviously a juvenile way to handle a not-so-juvenile matter.

"Have I told you the story of how I got to witness ancient elvhen ass firsthand?" Zevran jumps in, draping an arm over Dorian's shoulders. Their height difference is significant enough to force him to rise on tiptoes, and the sight is laughable. "A very muscular ass, might I add. Oh, and those calves! We were sitting by campfire and it just so happened no one was around—don't tell anyone as it'll ruin my reputation of a seducer, but he might have overindulged in that pipe of his—so I grabbed him and—"

She groans. " _Zevran_. No one cares about you fucking Abelas."

"It is getting a bit too detailed for me," Wynne agrees, quietly.

"On the contrary, do continue," Dorian chimes in, eyes narrowing. Oh, this is just to spite her.

Just how immature are they.

She is going to steal his nugs' ribbons and then he'll have no way of telling them apart.

"I was getting to the best part," Zevran says. He gives Dorian a light pat on the chest as if the two are old comrades. "Well, let's just say someone has been keeping busy all those centuries. Oh, Inquisitor, did you know he has quite a large bed?"

"No," she mutters. "I had other things to do than search for his rooms." Others things like doing nothing ninety percent of the time, now that she thinks of it.

"Truly? I assumed you would. Surely his accommodations are similar to the Dread Wolf's."

And there he finally shuts up. She can _see_ the mortification crawl up to his face at this careless slip, but it is not even close to what she feels. She trudges ahead, ignoring his apologetic touch as he tries to grab her hand. Behind her, Dorian heaves a great, dramatic sigh.

"For fuck's sake, Ellana!" he exclaims. "What is wrong with you? _Really_?"

"Oh, don't you lecture me right now," she snaps back. "There is no moral ground where you stand."

"I can assure you as to the quality of my morality. I am not the one who spent the last few months bouncing on my enemy's cock."

That finally does it. She lunges at him without as much as a warning sound. Cullen's lessons paid off. She might be lean, but she tackles him, using his poor footing to unbalance him. Dorian falls backward and she follows him down, her fall softened by his body. She doesn't hesitate and tangles her fingers in his perfect hair, tugging and using it for leverage to crash his skull against the hard rock beneath.

This is something she always loved about Dorian: he never held back with her, Herald or not, but right now it proves troublesome because he fights back and she struggles to restrain him.

"You moron," she screams, and her voice bounces within the confines of the lonely tunnels, "you _fucking_ moron. You're sinking down to his level, can't you see?"

He catches her off guard with a blow to the temple. Silverite must dwell beneath the soft twill padding of his gauntlet because she's knocked over with a _hmmph_ and then he's the one on top.

"It's about fighting fire with fire, don't be naive," Dorian snarls.

She kicks him in the side and he loses his breath; he tries to pin her arm down by the wrist, and she scratches his face.

"Moron—"

"—do you even know any other words—"

"—what are you going to do? Sleep curled around Feynriel and hope he doesn't murder you in your dreams for threatening his—"

"—oh, you would know about dreams—"

"—arrogant idiot—"

"—an idiot with a plan, which is more than you bring to the table—"

Just when she's about to just spit at him as a last resort, an amulet shakes loose from beneath his collar. At first she thinks nothing of it, considers even yanking at the leather cord to cut off his supply of air, but the familiarity of the pendant cools her rage. She goes limp.

This is the furthest thing from an amulet. It is certainly not magical, barren of even the faintest hint of power.

The strings carefully folded and tied into a knot and the metal pierced through to allow the cord's passing, Iron Bull's eye patch dangles from his neck. She reaches up absently to touch it and Dorian deflates. He rolls off her and buries his face in his hands.

She sits up, grazing his shoulder with hesitant fingers.

This is not about justice for the world at all. It's about revenge.

"I understand," she whispers, "I _understand_ , Dorian." When he fails to respond, she climbs atop him and pries his hands away one by one. "My clan survived Wycome only to burn alive when he tore the Veil down. I understand," she repeats, "but this is not the right way."

And him. She lost Solas as well. Too many times to count.

Keeper Deshanna. All the little da'lens drawing obscenities on the nose of their resident statue of the Dread Wolf with fresh mud. That one halla she'd nicknamed Pretty who actually seemed sad to see her go when came the time to leave for the Conclave. She sees them all, their memory as bloody as the ground they walk and she understands this too, this desire to rip and bite and claw her way to emotional peace.

"There is no right way," he murmurs, "and the dead aren't quiet in their graves."

She isn't quite sure what to make of that. His statement causes her skin to crawl and she hates the detached look in his eyes.

She kisses his cheek and Dorian leans into the touch, a beast tamed.

"We leave," she says, "somewhere far away. We start anew. The stakes are too high, Dorian. We can't afford to spill any more blood."

It was one thing when she believed Dorian still had an army to oppose Solas, but now they are no better than beggars.

Can't he see how broken their world already is? The mad spirits, the desperate refugees, the burned cities? _How can he be so blind_.

He is shaking his head and pushing her off him before she can get in another protest. He closes a fist around the eye patch and looks at her with sad eyes.

"I—I can't," Dorian stutters. "I am too close."

She can't break him. His grief runs too deep for her to do anything about it. Like a furious beast, it has sank its teeth into his heart and now he is helpless but to obey. Retribution is an ugly thing.

"Promise me," she says, "you have to promise me that you'll abandon this idea if it turns out you can't control _it_."

The stretch of silence is painful, but at last he nods and she thinks he's even sincere.

Zevran, Wynne and the two soldiers have retreated into the shadows. Mischief is the first to venture toward them, floating in reluctant circles around her. It perches on her shoulder and it's almost comforting.

"Are you two calm now?" Mischief asks.

"Yes," she sighs, trying and failing to caress the little spirit.

*

None of them are really here, but she pretends they are. It is a lovely dream.

She kneels at their side and gathers fistfuls of dirt. Her arm is whole here, and she delights in the eerily realistic sensation of dragging her fingers through the wet earth.

The statue of Fen'Harel, chipped and overrun with greenery, stares at her.

She splatters the wolf's muzzle with mud, following suit of the children from her memory.

"Some would call this blasphemy," Solas' voice echoes at her ear.

He doesn't come close and she can see him in her peripheral, leaning against some old stone, hands wringing until the skin is red and raw.

And that sweater.

Creators help her, he's wearing that _damned_ sweater, beige and old and riddled with holes and painfully familiar and—

She shakes her head.

"What do you want?" she asks.

The wolf's powerful jaws are open ever so slightly and she stuffs mud in his mouth. Solas lets out some odd sound at that, not quite a laugh but nothing derisive either.

"I will rebuild the bridge," he says, focusing on his wrapped feet.

Where she is busy creating a blasphemous work of art with dirty hands and mud, he draws patterns in the soil with a twig. She stills only a little, but refuses to turn around to face him.

"You will be free to go," he continues, much quieter, tone wavering.

She knows better by now. She will not take him at his word. He is so good at twisting those to serve him.

"Just I?" she asks.

"Everyone," he whispers. "You must only promise not to wake that which cannot be controlled."

She does not answer. The children laugh, but they are only phantoms. She can't make out their faces and their voices are no more than unintelligible muttering. The memory ceases being comforting.

She can't control the Fade and it dulls once she grows dissatisfied with its lack of realism.

"Bring it back," she demands.

Solas does not move toward her. He remains where he is, offering only a sorrowful shake of the head. The twig dissolves in his hands and he looks very awkward, unsure as to what to hold on to.

"I am sorry, I cannot," he says. "This is not my memory."

He breathes.

He whispers, "But it is enchanting."

She supposes it must be to him. His life never had place for simple joys, mundane by most standards but dear to those who lived them.

She doesn't know why she blurts it out or the origin of this sudden burst of honesty. She turns to face him and her hands are trembling. It's the damned sweater, it must be. Because now she is thinking of Skyhold when it was hers, when Dorian wasn't hell-bent on seeking vengeance, when Solas was no more than the oddball of the inner circle and Sera baked disgusting cookies.

"I would have shown you," she whispers. "I wanted you to meet all of them."

And she can't stand to look at him any longer. She has to turn away or she'll start sobbing. But not for him and not even because of him. Because of what he's done and what subsequently became of them.

"I was so proud to have you," she confesses the little truth which before would have made her furiously blush. Now, she is simply cold.

Self-loathing slithers up her throat as does her hand. She is going to tear her windpipe open with her own nails.

"Leave," she says. "Just go, please go. I can't look at you."

"I know," he murmurs. "Please leave Minrathous, vhenan." It almost sounds like a plea, but Solas doesn't beg.

He doesn't touch her and she is grateful.

*

One of the Kittens—and thank you very much Zevran, because now she can't think of the two warriors otherwise—turns out to be a Grey Warden.

They've gone so deep in the catacombs that the air tastes of dust. It is stale, thick. Their lungs will harden before long. Whatever passages Tevinter slaves of the past were forced to construct have mostly caved in. Dorian moves the debris out of the way with a spell and she aids him, but it is exhausting.

She hasn't told him of Solas' counteroffer yet. It would only set him off. Perhaps later, once this endeavor of his proves fruitless and there are no other cards to play.

He can't actually believe, she argues with her mind, that he has the power to command an Old God—whatever it is. Not when even Solas is afraid to approach it.

Their Warden collapses once they take a lift to a lower level.

"I can't hear, I can't hear," he repeats like mad. "It is too loud."

"Which way?" Dorian asks, hooking his arms beneath his to assist him up.

But the Warden wrenches himself free with surprising strength. His gaze is unfocused, wild. He follows the beckon of a tune he alone can hear.

The darkness is absolute and he sets out right into the heart of it.

Dorian takes off like a rabbit. Without as much as a word. He has his eyes on his prize and he will not let go. Zevran fumbles to light a torch and Wynne summons a small wisp to illuminate their way.

This is entirely different from the upper levels.

Wynne hesitates; worry creases her brow. She does not want to follow.

"There was an enchantment here once," she says. "It has been broken. I can feel it."

She seems _brighter_. Ellana stares at her an instant too long before the illusion leaves her mind. It must be the lack of fresh air.

She expected a collapsed mess, infested with rats or deepstalkers, but this is beautiful. The way has been carved through bedrock, elegant workmanship that must have taken more than a single lifetime to complete. Dragons the ancient Tevinter worshiped have been immortalized in bronze and they rise, high and mighty, to act as supports for the underground—fortress, hideout, place of worship?

There is no telling what this is.

"Dorian, wait!" she cries, but of course he does not slow down.

She follows him down, always down, Wynne's wisp shadowing her steps as some story unfolds on the walls she passes. The writing is so old she doubts even Dorian could make something out. But whoever engraved the phrases into the stone was adamant they remain for ages; melted gold has been poured into the etchings and it reflects all light to the point of blinding.

At long last, she sees them.

Dorian kneels, cradling the Warden in his lap.

She's afraid. She doesn't want to come any closer.

But she does and the wisp follows, floating an inch from her shoulder. She can hear the fast approaching footsteps of the rest of their party, but it doesn't matter.

Dorian's face is a mask of terror. He looks up at her expectantly, pleadingly, but there is nothing she can do.

The Warden is covered in blood. It pours from his nose, his eyes, his ears. His hands twitch where they're weakly gripping Dorian's collar. He tries to say something, or maybe just attempts to fight for a last breath, but blood froths at his mouth and he convulses.

Then goes limp.

The veins in his face have gone dark, she notices with horror.

"We must be close," Dorian whispers.

She can't meet his eyes.


	32. From a Bygone Age

There is nothing.

There should be something at least, she thinks, there surely is, but all they encounter is darkness.

Well, not entirely true.

Mischief flees without an explanation, frantic as she's never seen it.

They uncover a temple; there is no doubt as to its purpose. Torches of unfamiliar design line the walls of gold-plated bedrock, inlaid with rubies like the blazing eyes of the bronze dragons they passed earlier. The staves are wooden and she expects nothing, thinking them to be delicate relics of a glamorous past, but then there is a swirling feeling beneath her skin and all warmth is sucked out of her.

Her finger bleeds where she dared touch one of the beacons.

It's like witnessing the domino effect in reverse. All around them, one by one, torches flicker to life. The heat is scorching; she jumps back before a fiery tongue can lap at her cheek. It is brighter than veilfire, yet colder, radiating magic   

Then she sees.

It's the work of a madman and a burial ground at once.

She almost hopes the pile of bones scattered about the harsh mosaic of reds and blacks of the floor grew with the passing of seasons; that these are the remains of slaves who died to twisted Tevinter glory, building this sanctuary of gold and bone. But it is not; it belonged to a single entity. The pieces of the carcass are too thick, too-well preserved. They do not disintegrate to dust as old things ought without an enchantment to preserve them.

Dorian looks down at his staff in acknowledgment; she does too.

Their weapons glow in the torchlight. Dragonbone recognizes its kin and calls out to it.

"That's a dragon," Zevran says.

"Was," Dorian corrects.

The skull is massive and nearest to them. A spear has been driven through it, hairlines cracks circling the point of impact. She squints and realizes it is not a spear at all but a staff. It's battle-scarred and old, used-up, worthless. No magic remains within and yet it has survived ages beyond counting.

When Dorian moves to wrench it free, the staff decays in his grasp. The wood bleeds but then that very blood turns to ash, to dust, until it is nothing but white powder at Dorian's feet.

The dragon skull fractures and falls apart.

The rest of the skeleton crumbles.

All that remains is an outline of where a once great beast fell.

A desperate wail shakes the ground. The voice is loud, and yet it is not a voice. It feels like a thought, crazed and unhinged, burrowing its way into the very core of her mind.

It shrieks

And it shrieks.

And shrieks some more.

She's bleeding from the nose before she knows it.

Dorian stares at her with wild eyes and he, too, is bloody. As is Zevran and the remaining warrior. Wynne does not bleed, but she _glows_ —and there's that illusion again, one she thought she shook off previously.

This is ludicrous, she thinks, but then Wynne really is brighter. Yet, she fares no better despite the lack of blood.

"Wynne?" Ellana calls. Or maybe she screams it. She can't hear anything aside from the mournful howling, can't taste her own words.

The light emanating from Wynne appears conflicted, if such an attitude can even be attributed to light. It clings to her and yet slowly drifts away, dragged inch by excruciating inch out of her body.

Whatever resistance it's put up vanishes; the light siphons out of her.

Wynne collapses without a sound.

She _sees_ Zevran scream. It rips out of him with devastating strength, the muscles in his neck going rigid from strain. His words do not register yet his mouth moves. He throws himself to his knees. He cradles her face with bloody, sticky palms.

The light forcefully pulled out of Wynne ambles through the ritual chamber, aimless. It disturbs the bone dust. For a second it almost looks like it is no longer shapeless, rising thin and tall, vaguely humanoid in appearance until it darkens.

The inhuman howling ceases.

Her mind no longer feels like it's full of broken glass.

Ellana coughs and spits out a generous mouthful of blood. Dorian wipes his face clean with his sleeve.

"No, no," Zevran sobs. "This is not worth it."

He gathers Wynne in his arms. When Dorian turns their way to assist he almost bares his teeth at him, unleashed and primal in his anger. The healing magic at Dorian's fingertips dies out.

"We will go no further," Zevran says, and by his tone it is clear that this 'we' of his is exclusive.

Dorian is not included. She is not—her invitation is retracted the instant she hesitate too long and remains by Dorian's side, too loyal for her own good. His eyes burn with disdain when she fails to follow.

The warrior leaves with Zevran.

She can't blame either of them. She wants to run too.

"Dorian," she begins, touching his arm. "Dorian," she tries again.

But he isn't looking at her, not even listening. The light is moving again only now it is a shadow. It grows. Expands until its form erupts with spikes, until it becomes all sharp edges and bleeds corruption.

Then it is solid. Physical. Real.

The Pride Demon sifts through the bone dust, paying them no heed. Its claws catch on a silver contraption previously buried deep and even before that comfortably nestled between the dragon's rib cage and spine. The metal glows with engraved runes as the demon puts it around itself.

She feels Dorian raise a barrier around them, but she is panicked and casts one of her own as well.

Time passes and the creature does not move. It's motionless, as if in a trance, kneeling among the remains of its predecessor.

"It's not attacking," Dorian comments.

They just stand there, two dumbfounded statues, staring at the inert Pride Demon. It's enveloped itself in a static cage out of instinctive need for protection. Every so often its great form twitches, as if remembering the bindings, but then it quickly forgets itself once more. A predator turned guardian sentenced to a mindless existence.

The demon's nine glowing eyes are fixated on a single point.

Dorian sees it too and moves before she can stop him. He is careful, walking a wide circle around the chained beast, his staff on the ready.

The golden walls hurt her eyes; they well with tears and she's blinking too much, too fast. The taste of blood is lodged between her teeth, on her tongue, in the back of her throat and she can't stop thinking of Wynne and how she fell like a rock.

Ellana hopes against hope she still draws breath.

She's desperate if not to stop Dorian then at least stall him.

This reminds her too much of when she tried a similar tactic on Solas and her heart flutters for it.

"How did you learn of this place?" she frees the nagging thought at the forefront of her mind.

"Morrigan's son," Dorian replies dismissively. "You should have seen him. He went absolutely mad, kept talking about some song."

"Flemeth took the Old God's soul out of him," she says, voice shrill and desperate. There aren't enough words to stop him.

"I don't understand it either," Dorian says, throwing a shrug her way. "He retained an affinity for the magic of old, you know this. That's how he located those two elvhen foci."

Flemeth only took away his destiny, after all. Whatever that means.

"Where is Morrigan?" she says, and now she really is desperate because they're drawing closer to the end of the ritual chamber, rapidly approaching the wall of obsidian the Pride Demon is staring at. "I haven't seen her since she gorged herself on lyrium to buy her way into my dreams. Still have no idea how she did that. I'm assuming that's what happened, of course."

"Damned if I know," Dorian snarls. "That bitch better run. I never want to see her again."

He looks like he wants to confess something, his eyes wandering to her wrist where the mark sat before he removed it, but changes his mind.

They reach the end.

It's only a wall. Just a simple wall. She thinks, she hopes, and then smothers both feelings for as Dorian splays his hand over the obsidian surface it ripples and turns to glass.

The glass shifts, swirls, fighting to banish darkness and welcome transparency. At last it settles on a watery texture, distorting the view of whatever resides behind.

There isn't much. The design is the same as the rest of the temple, ancient Tevene words etched into the gold of the walls, but somehow here one thing lacks—order. Dorian tries reading some of it but cuts himself off rather quickly.

"I do not understand a thing," he growls. "It is too archaic."

He swears his frustration at being unable to reach the sealed off room. His fist connects with the wall that isn't a wall.

Everything changes.

The demon stirs, thrusting its massive arms forward just as a shadow springs forth. It crashes against the enchanted—glass, wall, stone. Her head spins and she couldn't care less about the identity of the odd barrier. Yet it does stand tall and strong even as the two beings desperately reach for one another.

The shadow twists into something ugly and deformed, clawing at the barrier, causing the surface to undulate like a lake into which a boulder has just been dumped. She can hear the beginning of the now familiar, terrifying wail at the back of her mind.

She thinks the demon will break its bindings any second now.

Dorian is trying to speak to it, but the shadow does not react until something very particular leaves his mouth.

"Manaveris Dracona," Dorian says. " _Manaveris Dracona_. Long live the Dragons."

The shadow loses interest in the demon. It gravitates toward Dorian. Molds itself against the barrier, slithering up and down, judging the man who dared disturb its questionable peace. It pours itself into the outline Dorian's tall form casts upon the ground.

And then it rises as Dorian's reflection, all smoke and darkness, lacking facial features but otherwise a mirror copy.

Where his hand is still pressed against the barrier, the shadow lays its own to reflect it.

"Na via lerno victoria," It hisses in a voice so old, so utterly ancient that the world mustn't have heard the likes of it in centuries.

"What did it say?" she demands, shaking Dorian when he fails to respond. "What did it say?" Her nails dig into his forearm, bending back from the sheer force of it. Her knuckles go white.

"Only the living know victory," Dorian translates, transfixed.

It's a very long time before he so much as blinks.


	33. An Interlude of Honesty

For once, she is grateful to surrender to the strain of her muscles and the mental exhaustion weighing her down. She curls up on the cold stone of the Tevinter temple, heedless of the chained demon and equally chained Dorian, slave to his own fascination. He does not listen and her mouth has long run dry. The wards she sets up are a mere force of habit, much like everything else she does these days.

And it's nearly pleasant to welcome the swirling Fade as well as its usual visitor.

"Why do you keep coming?" she asks.

She sits. Crosses her legs and, after a heartbeat of hesitation, decides to hug her knees to her chest instead.

"I worry," Solas says.

He lowers himself upon the shifting grey nothingness in front of her. He does not touch her. She's not sure what she would do if he were to reach out.

"You are going to get us out of the city either way," she says quietly. She is not daft nor an optimist; they have nothing but her desire to leave and Dorian's corrupted need for revenge, the latter outweighing whatever good intentions she might still possess. "There is nothing for you to fear."

Solas nods, and the gesture is very mild, cautious. "Yes," he agrees. "I will drive you out."

And maybe he will do it sooner rather than later. Maybe Dorian will unlock some ancient secret that was never meant to be uncovered. Maybe they will clash—and she'll end up with blood in her mouth and dust in her lungs no matter the outcome.

"Tell me," Solas says, "am I right to rebuild the bridge?"

He's asking if they will willingly cross and leave Minrathous for him to dispose of.

He's asking if he's wasting his time.

"No one here deserves to die," she says.

It's not quite an answer, not quite a lie, and certainly no escape.

But Solas was never cruel, only willing to sacrifice pawns that weren't his in the name of a greater good he alone perceived the worth of. She doesn't need to tell him any of this. He is no warmonger, no bloodthirsty hound. Only hardened.

These words of hers would be lost on him, she knows. He dirtied his own hands helping her dig through dirt to retrieve an old woman's ring because it suited a personal ideal of altruism.

"I will not risk waiting long," he says, sorrowful, echoing her thoughts.

 He doesn't need to voice it. She understands. He will try to get her out, but will bury Minrathous with her still upon its soil if she does not comply.

She has the urge to throw something at him. Or maybe just shake him.

"You would sacrifice me," she says. "Again."

She doesn't know why she brings it up, why it's even worth mentioning. It shouldn't be. It shouldn't hurt.

"We are not heroes from a literary tale, my love," Solas says softly. "I will not chase and you will not always seek to absolve. We do what we must for the good we believe in, however differing our notions of it might be. I would like for you to come with me, but I won't be blinded by that desire."

Around her, the Fade morphs into something familiar. It's not the Free Marches , and the forest is too lush to mirror exactly the one from her childhood, but it's vague enough to be just anyplace. Perhaps a grove she once passed, or an overgrown meadow amid the Emerald Graves.

"Look at yourself. Really, truly look," she says, the low tone of her voice giving in to trembling. "You wince at the mention of godhood, but you woke Sentinels who willingly entered the service of those who oppressed and ruled without concern for others. Now their adoration and loyalty are yours. You've surrounded yourself with beings from a rightfully forgotten past and regard everyone else as a second sort."

She breathes. She locks her eyes with his. "Who did you do all of this for?"

That's all they are to him: a lesser kind. Years will pass and new generations will step forth, youthful souls with the mindset from fallen Elvhenan that he will inspire. However for now, they are but warm bodies to him.

"For those I have wronged, for you," he says, and then he does reach across the empty space between them to take her hand.

This is neither acceptance nor forgiveness, but they've never talked as equals. He never gave her that until now. First there was a shroud of lies, then abandonment, and finally a continuous dismissal of her opinions as tantrums. Now, she thinks, they are on equal ground.

He's hurt her too much, but she deserves some truth.

"For my memory," she corrects him, her voice catching in her throat.

She was meant to fall. She was never meant to survive the burning of the Veil.

"Yes," he mouths. "You were—are—the only real thing. I woke to a world in disarray. The People were shadows, clinging to the worst of our past with sharp claws of misguided pride. My truths were met with contempt, none sought a better lot in life and it made me bitter."

"We couldn't have known, Solas," she whispers. "And for that you condemned us. We were nothing to you." She was nothing.

His smile is mellow. It' not deceitful. It simply exists, tugging one corner of his lips upward while the other remains down. A gesture meant to soothe, but lacking warmth.

His thumb traces lazy circles one the back of her hand. Her gaze shifts to follow its slow pattern.

"But you were not so," he continues, "and I hesitated. You, a wisp of smoke in a world where all got by on borrowed time, captured my attention." His lips find her knuckles. "My fascination," he whispers. "My affection." Another kiss, pressed to the inside of her palm where the skin is hot and soft. "I do not settle for petty pleasures, vhenan, nor do I take without the intent of keeping."

But he didn't keep her. He pushed her so far away she found herself doubting his sincerity for years.

"I hesitated," he repeats, the grip on her hand growing painful, "and it is not in my nature to falter. You were destined to be no more than a footnote in history—history I would re-write. But you were there every time I opened my eyes, warm and kind and soft, a footnote, I realized, not in the history of the world but my very own. I touched you and feared it would corrupt you, but you pulled me in each time and I could almost pretend there was nothing beyond the walls of your rooms. I did not have to be anyone other but myself. My name was but the one you knew; all the titles, monikers, insults stemmed from revulsion and lies mattered not. Memories of braiding your hair surpass the ones I have of offering freedom; they are etchings in my bones, whereas the latter no more than whispers of past deeds, unimportant. I had no right to feel so strongly, no right to devote myself to a girl with vivid eyes and a crooked smile, and yet I desired nothing else."

The words are wrong and they come too late. She feels like she's suffocating because this is the truth, finally, finally the truth and it's too much. And she realizes that she was wrong. He did keep her. In his blood and memories, as something more than she is, elevated to an unreachable standard that should not exist.

She doesn't want to be holding his hand anymore.

"You are real," he whispers. "You were so real, and you could not be."

"Your definition of personhood is unhealthy," she says, nails digging into his skin. She can't take this onslaught of revelations. "I can't be the only real thing to you."

She can't define a whole people.

She can't.

She can't make anything better.

This is deranged.

He smiles. He doesn't speak, and she knows her words are air, he will not heed them. She thinks he will embrace her then, pin her arm down and just hold her against his chest, because the look in his eyes bleeds intensity.

But he only holds her hand.

He holds her hand and does not let go.

She would have loved this not too long ago.

"I did not think I could have you in this world," he says. "But you are here and I am at a loss."

"You don't have me," she answers.

"You call yourself Inquisitor," he says, "and that is how I know you will not remain idle."

No, she will not. She will not watch Dorian destroy himself or wait for them all to slowly starve while supplies run low. She wants that bridge rebuilt so they can all leave.

It can go to hell, all of it. She doesn't want to fight Solas because he's not breaking anything anymore. Let him rebuild, let him shape his corner of the world while she withers in hers. He is not pursuing war even if he is the villain of their not-quite-literary tale—and isn't that ironic.

He is still looking at her, his eyes a little bluer than she remembers because here the sun is bright and the sky unobstructed.

She likes that scar between his eyebrows. Liked tracing it _before_.

"Thank you for the honesty," she says, staring at their weaved fingers. "You never did give me closure."

He answers too quickly, the calloused pads of his fingertips rubbing circles just beneath her knuckles. "I would not call it thus."

"Then what?"

"You have said it yourself. Honesty. Nothing more and nothing less."

Honesty that she isn't quite sure how to handle. There is a dull throbbing behind her eye and her throat is parched; she shouldn't be feeling like that in the Fade. She shouldn't be feeling like that at all.

At least now she feels free.

"You were wrong about one thing," she says. "I don't  call myself Inquisitor anymore."

Finally, his hand releases hers. He looks at his feet while she looks at hers.

"Perhaps that is the real tragedy," he says.

She is glad for the truth even if that truth is smothering.

And yes, he is right to some extent. It's sad that she no longer holds war councils and plans operations. Maybe it's even a facet of defeat. She's not letting go of the world, it's not exactly that—or perhaps it is.

But it hardly matters. She can't afford any more bravado. She wants to leave. Far, far away, and she will drag Dorian along by the collar if he doesn't abandon his folly.


	34. Red, Red Wine

"What are you doing?" asks Zevran.

He's busy cranking the wheel to the lift. There's a light sheen of sweat upon his brown and reproach in his eyes.

"Would you believe me if I said I'm looking for a rock to bash Dorian over the head with?" It's only partially a lie.

"There's an endless supply about. Take your pick."

She can't stand to look at Dorian, all but glued to the barrier, stepping right when the shadow goes left and in it further making himself a copy.

The two already look frighteningly alike.

Her blood curdles while her skin crawls, a sickening sensation.

Zevran gives a huff, not quite a laugh but also not a dismissal. She feels very inadequate then because he doesn't wear a smile and the lack of one makes him look older. She fought dragons but he was there when a true Archdemon fell. That doesn't quite compare.

"You're going back up?" She doesn't know why she asks. It's blatantly obvious. But a silent Zevran is worse than one who has forgotten how to smile, and so she feels compelled to break the quiet.

"I'm taking Wynne away from here," he says. Then adds, his voice barely rising above a whisper, "She's hardly breathing."

There is still that odd light in her, but it is no longer a lantern come alive beneath her skin. It is subtle, faltering; fireflies at her fingertips and over her heart, dimming.

Zevran rubs index and forefinger together, scraping off caked blood, and goes back to working the wheel. The timid flame reappears within his palm and he scoffs.

"What is the point of this if I can't use it to help?" he snarls. "Useless shit."

The tongue of fire dies out from the reprimand.

"Come," he says gently, gazing at the unconscious mage, "do wake up. Who else shall I shower with compliments about their bosom if not you?"

She kneels at Wynne's side, acutely aware of the warrior's gaze burning a hole in her back. She touches her skin, almost afraid the light will rip through and burn, scorch, devour but mercifully nothing happens.

"What manner of spell is this?" she asks, running her fingers down Wynne's forearm. Her healing magic is weak, but she's closed Zevran's infected wound and tended to whatever soldiers they still have. It should draw at least some response.

And Zevran looks at her with a calculated look, so calculated in fact that for the first time she feels his trust in her dwindle. It tapers off but does not flee completely because at last he sighs, resolute.

"It's not a spell," he says, wary. "At least not the way I understand it."

"Oh?"

"It's a spirit."

"Oh."

That certainly changes the tone of the conversation.

She draws back almost unconsciously, mindlessly. She is no Circle mage, she should know better, but the word abomination is pushed at the forefront of her mind and suddenly her mouth is very dry. She thinks of Grandin, the poor scout who all but invited a demon upon himself and immolated those responsible for his friend's demise. She remembers his voice, echoing with that of another, and the twisted deformation of his ideals. Grief turned retribution turned wrath—

"I know what you're thinking," Zevran says, and his hand stills her wrist before she can acknowledge his touch. "It's not like that."

—but that's not all it can be.

There was also the young Avvar mage in voluntary exile, years of comfort and love shared with her spirit confidante.

No, he doesn't know her thoughts.

Zevran is still talking, and his voice has risen in volume.

"It's saved her twice," he's saying. "She died twice and it saved her, do you hear me?"

She did hear something about one of the Hero of Ferelden's companions passing on, but never quite put two and two together. She had a self-proclaimed god to deal with and lessons in history did not matter much in comparison.

"How?" she says.

"Perhaps she'll tell you once she wakes. I don't know. We all thought her dead until the sky began to burn and then there she was, dressed as an ordinary healer."

Zevran shrugs. He steps between her and Wynne, hand still cradling her wrist but grip softening. She nods, once, and it is enough for him to release her.

There won't be a third time.

Whatever that thing Dorian is fascinated with is—she refuses to call it an Old God; it's a parasite, a leech, something vile and corrupted but in no way a deity—it pulled the spirit out of her and perverted it into an obedient demon. And now only a sliver of light remains, always dimming.

But she can't tell him that. Not just now.

No wonder Mischief fled.

"All right," she says, "I understand. Go back up."

Zevran's shoulders slump. "What about you?"

"I'll drag Dorian away soon enough. He's bound to get hungry at some point." Or thirsty. Or anything, really, as long as it means he's forced to go.

Zevran pulls her in for a hug. It's warm and sincere, and she finds herself inhaling his musky scent. His hands roam gently over her back before he pulls away.

The three of them leave and she just stays there until the lift comes plummeting down, yet another courtesy of Zevran.

The trek back to the temple is exhausting. Her throat is parched and her stomach feels affixed to her spine. They've been down here long enough for the taste and smell of dust to be everywhere: on her tongue and lodged between her teeth.

The demon doesn't even stir as she passes it. Her mind conjures the picture of some giant, bored guard dog, too lethargic to even attempt to chew on its chain. Dorian, however, is bristling with energy.

The first thing that gets her attention is that the shadow beyond the barrier no longer has an arm.

"What's going on?" she demands. "Where's its arm gone?"

"I'm fine," Dorian mutters. He rubs his eyes, worries his lips with his teeth. The side of his thumb is an angry red, dry skin coming off in flakes where he's raked his nails across as a nervous tic.

"That's not what I asked."

The shadow says something else in archaic Tevene. None of them understand it—Dorian's knowledge only goes so far, and the occasional adjectives he makes out are hardly sufficient to paint a bigger picture—but understanding is not needed to grasp the elementary truth that it does not like her.

"The words," Dorian murmurs, "it's a counter spell, I believe."

The ones all but _clawed_ into the gold of the prison's walls?

"Yeah, we're not reading those," she announces.

He makes some choked sound. He isn't listening.

She's far from the most sensible person around, but so far she's been the voice of reason in this enterprise of theirs—which is saying a lot.

When Dorian goes to press his hand to the barrier, she thinks it shines with sweat—until torchlight falls upon it and then it's not sweat at all but blood. A cut, shallow and precise, slashes the length of his palm. It leaves no smudge behind, every last droplet as if absorbed by the current of magic.

There's no knife, not even a dagger, for him to have used; she shudders to think he might have resorted to his staff blade, so sharp and thick.

This time the shadow doesn't seek to imitate him. It has no arm to play mirror; it merely sways in time with him if he so much as leans an inch left or right.

Dorian flexes his fingers.

Says, "That was its body before someone destroyed it."

His eyes travel toward the remains of the dragon, nothing but bone dust at this point. There's too much conviction in his voice. This isn't an educated guess. He simply knows.

It doesn't even matter how he came to learn it. This knowledge deserves to rot and die.

She grabs him by the shoulder and gives him a hard shaking. His head whips around and his jaw goes slack. He stares at her but does not see until his concentration breaks and his eyes lose their hazy quality.

He breathes. A lone bead of sweat trickles down his temple.

He backs away from the barrier even as the shadow impersonating him surges forth, despondent. Its voice grows louder, pleading.

"I have no more water," she says, "and neither do you."

If he won't listen to morality perhaps he'll heed common sense.

There are so many things she wants to ask him, but for now all that matters is getting him away. He reaches for her and she helps him up. Where his wounded hand touches the bare nape of her neck, a radiating pain explodes at the surface and worms its way beneath her skin.

She jerks away from him with a hiss.

Did he forgot to put out a spell?

But he doesn't even notice and simply moves past her. She rubs the blossoming bruise in silence, biting her lip.

"We'll come back later," Dorian says. It's not a question; he doesn't look her way.

No they won't. Not if she has anything to say about it.

Has everyone gone fucking insane, she thinks with no small amount of anger. Solas razes entire cities as a pastime while basking in his Elvhen Glory and in the meantime Dorian plays peek-a-boo with beings from—bloody, terrible, horrifying—legends. She comes across as relatively level-headed in comparison; and that's coming from someone who slept, time and again, with the man who destroyed the world.

Dorian seems to have trouble articulating as well as moving. His words falter in turn with his steps and he stumbles, his staff barely keeping him upright. He's very heavy and it proves hard to support him, but they only need to make it onto the lift and then they can sit down. The ride up is quite long anyway.

Dorian just sort of stares into the darkness.

She tries not to fidget, even as the burn at the back of her neck makes her skin tingle. It itches so.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't be," she says.

He shakes his head. "No," he says, unable to meet her eyes, "not about that. I don't regret it. I'm sorry about the mark. The blood magic."

Ah. Good to know he still thinks disturbing ancient things is a great idea worth pursuing.

She purses her lips shut and says nothing.

Dorian continues, "I didn't do it just for you. It was a selfish endeavor, mostly. I didn't want him sifting through your memories, discovering what we knew."

And yet Solas still did. He didn't even have to twist the Fade to get information out of her. Just take her to the largest city still standing and wait for her to point the refugees to the nearest garrison, the closest safe houses. If he truly wanted to hurt her, he could have done it through conventional means. But still. It was more than she could have hoped for. She understands.

"Are you angry?" Dorian asks. He tries to smile. He really does. His lips even twitch a little. "Are you going to scratch my face again?"

"No," she says, smiling back. She reaches across and takes his hand, weaving their fingers together, while her staff rests abandoned in her lap.

"Good. Your nails are awfully blunt; you're horrible at cat-fights."

His touch doesn't hurt this time and he is fully himself.

"Where is Vivienne?" she asks. "You said she was being a thorn in your side."

Dorian snorts. Rolls his eyes. The gesture is simply magnificent and her heart swells at the familiarity.

"In Qarinus with Feynriel, watching over Maevaris," he says. "It's actually better this way. I can't imagine being trapped anywhere with her. An entire city—Thedas' largest, mind you—and I'd be willing to bet money she'd still find a way to be a condescending and in my way all day long."

"How is Qarinus?"

"Small," Dorian whispers. "It is small."

That says it all.

It is several minutes before he speaks again and when he does his brow is furrowed.

"Can you feel it?" Dorian asks, frowning.

Yes, she can. It is very subtle, but definitely there. The feeling that Wynne mentioned, not even an entire feeling, just remnants of it. Little echoes scattered all around. The magic is—soft, if such a term can even be applied to magic. It is old, dulled by time.

"I think there was a cloaking spell over this place once," Dorian says. "It must have broke when the Veil fell."

"Yes," she says, staring at her feet, "a lot of things broke that day."

*

She's surprised to find Zevran waiting for them when they emerge from the catacombs. Dorian claims exhaustion and retreats to his rooms for rest.

"Ah, can we talk about that?" Zevran asks, his usual glee all but disintegrated.

 _That_ turns out to be the bridge. It's not whole yet, but is being rebuilt at a spectacular pace, magic working in tandem with a few workers.

Her expression sours. She didn't expect it to be this quick.

"Well," she says.

"Well?" Zevran insists.

"I don't know what to say," she admits.

"I have half a mind to chuck a bomb at it."

"Do you have a bomb?"

"I do not."

"Problem solved."

The plan— _he_ r plan—was always to leave, but she never quite envisioned what would happen before the actual departure.

Solas won't just step aside and wait patiently for them to evacuate his newest playground and disappear into the wilderness. He'll want something, or someone, and terror seizes her by the throat when she considers that he might demand Dorian.

But those thoughts vanish, at least for the time being, when another voice interrupts their not-quite-joyous conversation.

A woman, all bronze skin and wild hair, wanders toward them. She proceeds to kiss Zevran square on the mouth, hands skimming dangerously low. It's loud, wet, and certainly passionate.

"Hello there," she says, smiling lazily while twirling around.

"Now's not the time, Isabela," Zevran says.

"Now's exactly the time," she counters, pinching his cheek. She leans close and clacks her teeth in a mock bite as if aiming to catch his nose.

"I will go check on Wynne," Zevran says, disentangling himself from her.

If Zevran, of all people, isn't in the mood for some crass remark then things are bad indeed. Not that she didn't know it already, but until now she never quite appreciated his easygoing behavior, his grins in the face of doom. She mourns the loss.

They watch Zevran depart and only then does Isabela clear her throat. She strikes a pose, one hand on jutted hip.

"Hmm, how about I kiss you too?" she offers. "You look like you need it."

For a long moment, Ellana does nothing but blink at her.

"Why yes," she says, very slowly, "how about you do that."

And she does, oh she does.

Isabela _lunges_ at her. Her lips are soft and demanding as they find her own. Her fingers tease the underside of her chin, where the skin is soft and sensitive, before tilting it up. She is taller, stronger, her tongue carrying the flavor of spiced wine. It's almost overwhelming, but then Ellana parts for her and that peculiar taste is everywhere, chasing away the dust of the catacombs. Isabela nibbles on her lower lip and she responds in kind, savoring the sweetness that's stained it a deep red.

When they pull away, Isabela leans back in to give her nose a peck before retreating, her smile more teeth than lips.

"Where did you find a Tevinter Red?" Ellana asks.

"Here and there," Isabela responds nonchalantly, rolling one shoulder. "I still have three bottles left."

"You're very drunk."

"Wouldn't you want to be? That's the only way to survive in this hellhole."

The dots suddenly connect and Ellana recognizes the name.

"Wait," she says. "I know you. You were an agent of the Inquisition. You were responsible for raids."

"I was an admiral," Isabela says, tipping an imaginary hat.

 _Self-anointed title_ , Varric's words rush back. She can almost hear his soft chuckle. Almost.

"An admiral, then," Ellana agrees.

"How about I visit you tonight, Inquisitor?"

"Will you still be drunk?" she teases.

Isabela winks. "And if I am? There's always ways to get on the same level."

Yes, she supposes she's right.

Isabela is warm and soft and thrilling. She wants to kiss her again, if only once. This kind of kiss without actual feelings, without anything too deep anchoring her to the past. Without promises or lies. Just kissing for the sake of kissing—for the sake of feeling.

She is not Solas and the difference is wonderful.

Ellana smiles, surprising herself at just how genuine the gesture is. She feels playful.

"How about you do that," she says, voice low.

Isabela throws her head back in laughter. "I like that attitude," she announces.

Her wine breath is delightful.

*

But it doesn't last.

It barely even begins.

It's but an hour past midnight and Isabela's lips are at her pulse point while Ellana's solitary hand fumbles with the complex ties of her shirt when there's an unceremonious banging on the door. There's even more wine on her breath and it is hot, sweet, spicy. She wants to crash her mouth against Isabela's once more instead of answering the knocking.

Then the door simply bursts open and she forgets the half-finished bottle of Tevinter Red and the beautiful woman embracing her.

Zevran barges in and gives them an appraising look over, his hair a wild tangle and eyes wide.

"Under different circumstances, I would ask to join," he begins.

"Then do," Isabela cuts him off, one arm opening up in invitation while the other remains around Ellana's waist.

"—however, Inquisitor, there's the matter of your friend completely and utterly losing it."

Her blood gradually cools. She pries herself out Isabela's clutches and readjusts the laces of her pants. Her boots are, well, somewhere, though it hardly matters.

"What's wrong with Dorian?" she asks, already hunting about the room for her staff. "What did he do this time?"

"Oh, nothing," Zevran says, voice high and shrill and sarcastic, "except cause the ground beneath him to crack."

Well, then.


	35. It's Not a Demand If Asked Nicely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention I have a tumblr where I reblog Dragon Age solavellan trash or do absolutely nothing; maybe I'll post something unique soon enough. Dump stuff that didn't make it on ao3 there. So yeah, you can find me [here.](http://emmg.tumblr.com/)

Dorian's room overflows with tomes of unknown provenance. It's as if he's claimed some forgotten library for his own and now exists between the dusty pages of forgotten writings.

Nevarran Mortalitasi findings; leather bound journals recovered from elvhen temples; Tevinter research dating back no less than a century. A study in death, prettily shelved in alphabetical order.

There's no telling whether he seeks to breed a new sort of beast, great and horrible, or simply draws inspiration from the bunch. Either way, it's not comforting. She remembers all too well how he raised the corpses around him, wisps beneath their hearts  and bindings of potent magic guiding their blades.

Then again, she never thought he'd dabble in blood magic—he snapped at Solas so beautifully when the latter brought it up in spite—and yet here they are.

"Dorian," she says, cautious.

The marble floor is cracked beneath him and when he turns too abruptly to face her, the glass work about the room shatters as well. Gas lamps and windows and carafes—they all go flying, shards stained with wine and morning light.

"What did you do?" she asks. No courtesies, no nothing. This is ridiculous.

His fingers twitch. He flexes them and then there are flames dancing at his fingertips and the nearby curtains catch fire.

"I do not know," he admits, gripping his staff. And finally whatever rages inside of him quiets down. Channeled through the weapon, it isn't as wild. Dorian smiles a little. "This is interesting," he says.

"I thought you were going to sleep," she says.

He waves her off. Protests, "In a while."

"Now."

Dorian sighs. His shoulders slump. "Yes," he murmurs. "Perhaps you're right."

Of course she is. He hasn't had as much as a wink of rest in two days; she wonders how he hasn't keeled over yet, considering he spent countless hours _actually_ bleeding himself for the enjoyment of some ancient shadow trapped within a magical contraption none of them understand.

She considers taking his staff away, but quickly decides against it. Whatever power wrecks havoc within him needs a funnel rather than free reign; easier to deal with a stream than a waterfall.

It feels a little like putting a child to bed but, she supposes, in a way that's exactly what he is right now. Overwhelmed, confused and exhausted.

Dorian curls on his side and she brings the covers up past his shoulders. He's shivering. There is frost on his skin, but when she reaches with her knuckles to wipe it away a jolt of electricity snaps back at her, defensive, as if shielding him from her intrusion.

She doesn't like this. She doesn't like this one bit.

And his arm feels unbearably warm; the same one that he willingly slashed bloody down in the catacombs. The contact doesn't burn this time, but only because her reflexes are good and she pulls away in the nick of time.

The door is nudged open. Dorian's nugs slowly hobble in, one by one, in a single file. They're so awkward and fat that there's no denying they've led a good life.

She picks up the one with the blue ribbon first.

"Look who has come to visit," she says, forcing the nug's wet nose against Dorian's cheek. "They follow you everywhere."

"They follow beauty." Dorian grumbles slightly at the intrusion, but opens his embrace to the rest and soon they're all nestled against his chest.

"You won't die from lack of self-love, I'll tell you that much."

Dorian wrinkles his nose. "What a distasteful , unintended innuendo."

*

It takes all her patience to assure Zevran that Dorian is not dangerous. Perhaps she's a better liar than expected because the lie doesn't come easily yet leaves her lips with an impressive amount of conviction.

The fall of the Veil awoke something within the assassin, some inherently dormant sliver of magic or other. Perhaps the same happened to Dorian, intensified tenfold seeing as he was a powerful mage in the first place.

She refuses to consider any other possibilities. At least for now. They're all too gruesome.

She will not lose another person to an imaginary debt owed to a deceased loved one. Not to that and certainly not to some forgotten power.

It happens in the morning. Zevran is the one to wake her once again and she feels groggy, but is soon awake.

"Come," he says, "we've a bridge to cross."

"Is Dorian still sleeping?" she asks, rubbing her eyes.

"Yes," he says, "and we're not taking him with. He can stay with his little group of fellow corpse lovers. I don't trust him not to fly off the handle."

Neither does she.

Perhaps she truly will end up bashing him over the head with a rock to save him from himself, one day.

And, well, Zevran does have a point. Dorian has assembled quite a party of necromancers—Mortalitasi—whatever they're calling themselves— around him. The reminder makes her queasy.

Zevran averts his eyes as she dresses, though she couldn't care less. They spent weeks in the woods together; she's pretty sure he saw her backside more than once while they bathed.

"I have a gift for you," he says, setting a flannel bag on her bed. "Well, not I. Potato does," he corrects himself, flashing a grin.

"Oh," she says. "You finally found him?"

"Yes. He was busy licking a pie vendor's stall clean. Must have come across some leftovers others overlooked. He's always been a resourceful boy."

The poor horse took off into the crowd mere instants after they entered Minrathous. With the size of the city, despite a vast part being ruins, it's a miracle Zevran managed to find him.

She smiles a silly little smile upon recovering her prosthetic. The runes are still dead and it is just as heavy as before,  doubtlessly will leave bruises and scratches, but it's hers nevertheless. Something like a souvenir, but not quite.

She doesn't know what she will say to Solas. He won't sit back on his haunches and wait for them all to evacuate quietly and peacefully. He clearly wants to bury Minrathous, was incredibly eager to do so before she stormed in which, quite frankly, saved them all. He wouldn't have shattered the bridge had he known; Dorian simply murdered his men before they could intercept her.

But there are things that she wants and needs now.

Except that when they near the bridge, Isabela comes running, hair disheveled and eyes glimmering. She rearranges her belt and only then her daggers. Appearances before practicality, or so it seems.

"Hey," she says. "I'm coming with. These walls are driving me crazy."

As if it is that simple.

She's not so stupid as to believe Isabela is tagging along out of absolute altruism, but at this point it hardly matters. Ellana just shrugs and it earns her a wide grin paired with a wink. Isabela gives her a kiss on the nose and sets off after them.

"No," Zevran protests, "stay back."

"Nah," Isabela says and, somehow, that settles the matter between them. Well, that and a couple of glares.

She stares at the bridge in contemplation for a few minutes. Enough has been rebuilt for her to lift the rest of the bricks out of the water and energize a pathway.

Zevran makes a face upon making a step forth. "I don't trust all this hocus pocus."

"Aw, are you scared?" she teases.

Zevran rolls his eyes.

"Wait," she says, staff falling between his body and the stones, "before we go, can you send a bird to Leliana?" If they are to leave, it's always better to know where to go rather than wander about.

"Ah," Zevran sighs, wrings his hands, "I don't find Leliana. Leliana finds me."

That makes sense, but it's not what she hoped for.

The elvhen encampment is a mile off the shore. All are Dalish or city elves, their hands calloused from stonework; not a single Sentinel is present. Perhaps Solas is finally running short on ancient pretentious cretins. Better tuck them away for a rainy day.

They pass numerous artifacts, neatly arranged along the coast. One of them even seems to be the repaired version of the one delivered by Maevaris.

These are not soldiers, at least not the bulk of them, but workers. The few spirits also present are not corrupted like the ones who dwell in places where the Veil used to be thick. They are whole, like Cole but not like Cole; twins to Mischief in their enthusiasm.

She doubts Solas is here. He would have already come out, but then a young man with Dirthamen's vallaslin recognizes her and runs off, causing her train of thoughts to flee with him.

"What are we doing?" Isabela asks, chewing on her lip.

"Waiting," she answers.

"Oh," she replies, unimpressed.

And they don't wait long at all.

Truly, she would have waited an eternity had she known the face who'd come to greet her would be _his_.

Abelas emerges from s horrendous scarlet tent, hood momentarily falling off before he readjusts it. Immediately, his features slip into disdain's territory. She thinks she sees him huff, but it's hard to tell from a distance.

He walks as if he has all the time in the world. All. The. Fucking. Time.

Oh, and would you look at that, she muses internally, someone's picked up Solas' habit of clasping his hands at his back.

"Commander!" Zevran exclaims. He waves his arms. He almost jumps up and down. "Over here!"

Shut up Zevran, she thinks, but instead he waggles his eyebrows.

Abelas looks utterly disgusted. He quirks an eyebrow and says nothing.

"Oh, don't be like that," Zevran says. He makes a vague gesture with his hand, vaguely apologetic. "For what it's worth, you were a wonderful shag."

"What a quaint little sentiment," Abelas replies. So this he dignifies with a response, but not her arrival?

What a wild, scary world. A realm of endless possibilities and infinite wonders. Will he perform a somersault next?

Isabela whistles, eyeing him up and down. "Nice calves," she comments once done with the appraisal.

"That's what I said," Zevran chimes in, and they exchange a high five.

The other elves have gathered a few paces away and are observing the exchange from the sidelines. Some of them actually snicker. Abelas couldn't look more displeased about being left here. His robes are stained with dirt at the knees and his hair hangs limply down and over his shoulder; he's the very picture of indignation.

Of course, of course. A proud Elvhen such as he should not be assigned guard duty.

"Where's Solas?" she asks.

"Fen'Harel is not here," Abelas says slowly, voice careful. He squints, taking in the sight of her, eyes narrowing at every new detail he encounters. "You look well. Come with me now so we may end this charade."

Then, she finally does roll her eyes. It feels oddly liberating. "How about no," she says. "Go fetch Solas. I'm here to see him, not you."

"That's unfortunate because I'm all you're going to get," Abelas says, and now he crosses his arms, unyielding.

That's all right. She wasn't born yesterday either. His buttons are easy to push.

"I don't care how scared Solas is of being possessed, he'll rip your head clean off if he learns you let me walk away just like this."

And there she strikes a nerve. Abelas winces. Or cringes. It's so hard to tell with him. If he were to challenge himself to a staring duel with a statue, he'd probably win.

Abelas makes a sound deep in his throat; the corner of his lips rise. "I could just knock you out, Inquisitor," the title is said with enough venom to cause all the flowers of Thedas to wilt, "and then you'll sleep soundlessly through the destruction of this cursed city. We really only need you out of there—and here you are, right on schedule."

"Well yes," she agrees, nodding, very polite and composed as though they're discussing tapestry or the weather, "you could do that, but then I'll tear your jugular open with my own teeth."

"That's hot," Isabela says, punctuating it with a loud clickity-clack of her tongue.

Another high five. This time it's hers for the taking.

And Abelas is just looking. His right hand is balled into a fist, and she's not sure who he wants to hit more: her or Zevran. Probably both in equal measures.

Then he simply twirls on his heels and stalks away, calling over his shoulder, "Make yourself comfortable."

The instant he is out of sight, Isabela sets off as well. She walks around the encampment, bumping into the occasional worker, breaking locks on badly guarded chests when they aren't looking and stuffing her bag full with provisions.

She finds a deer hide, huffs, and wraps it around herself.

"Of course," Zevran remarks, shaking his head.

"You didn't really expect me to stick around?" Isabela questions, making a face. "C'mon."

"I thought you were with the Inquisition," Ellana says.

"There is no more Inquisition," Isabela says, and now she's found a decent looking knife of elvhen design and slides it between the leather straps of her boots. "And thanks to your friend my ship burned to a crisp in that harbor along with the others. I've no reason to stay."

She didn't expect her to, not really, but it still stings.

Ellana digs her hand wrist-deep into the moist soil and draws abstract shapes along the surface, saying nothing.

She hopes Abelas doesn't take his sweet time again because Dorian is going to be so angry if she fails to return within a few hours. He probably already is.

"Now where can I steal—find a horse," Isabela says pensively, scratching her jaw.

The ripple of magic is faint and way off, but it finds its way to her. She recognizes it all too well—an eluvian's signature. The echo breaches the gap between them before dying out, deactivated in the span of a heartbeat so other may not step through.

And when she sees Solas, Abelas at his heels, he wears the expression of one utterly surprised. He's found the world's ugliest scarf and paired it with his favorite sweater and all in all this is not Fen'Harel but the Inquisition's apostate hobo before her. He came in a hurry, that much is evident.

She rolls her eyes.

Again.

How many times is she going to do that today?

Zevran gets up first. He assists her to her feet, arms hooking beneath her own.

She doesn't quite recognize the expression flashing across Solas' face. Bits and pieces, really—something like a smile, a little joy in the eyes, grim determination in the way his jaw is set.

She plants her staff into the pliant earth between them, cutting off his future attempts at touching her.

His mouth opens.

She shakes her head, interrupting him before he gets as much as a breath out.

"You are going to give me the antidote for the poison you used on Maevaris. You are going to bring it to me yourself and then you will also write it down. And just so I know you aren't tricking me, one of your men will drink it and I'll watch him recover. I'll wait right here." She breathes through her nose. Swallows. "Then you will finish rebuilding this bridge correctly. No fragile overpass, but something sufficiently large and sturdy for merchants' caravans to get through. Supplies are heavy, you see.

Then you will retreat and not return until we're very far away. And you will do all of that because there's a very angry and very old _thing_ in the catacombs beneath the city that obeys Dorian's every whim. And, well, it will be set loose on you if you disagree. I think that's all. Chop chop, _emma lath_."

"I tire—"

"Of my sarcasm, I know. I'm not stopping."

It's a very ugly bluff. Also, more than a little desperate. But her words are harsh and she does not falter. She doesn't feel the tiniest bit bad about making this sham of a deal behind Dorian's back. It's infinitely better than hoping some deranged creature will help them.

She knows just how badly Solas can't afford to take the risk and lose himself.

He doesn't answer immediately. If anything, he looks very confused at this sudden onslaught of demands. He nods, but it isn't addressed to her, merely a gesture borne out of habit. He pulls at his sleeves, thread coming loose at the seams he disturbs.

"Good morning to you as well, vhenan," he concludes, at last.


	36. Some Kind of Alliance

There's something very neutral about Solas' expression. He doesn't look at her; instead his gaze wanders; to Zevran, to Isabela, to the barely functional arm she clutches to her chest.

"You keep interesting company," he remarks. "It is you I must thank for bringing my fortress down, yes?" No pause for reply is granted as he immediately rounds on Isabela. "Do release the horse. It is not yours to take."

Isabela is halfway across the camp, but she hears him and steps back. The reins slip from her hand. She makes a face, but knows better than to throw a fit. Zevran, too, says nothing.

"It's unimportant," she says. "Leave them alone."

Solas shakes his head. "I've let you speak. Return the courtesy, if you please." Always so mild, so restrained. "Your arm," he says, "allow me a look. I will repair it."

She doubts he keeps spare runes in his pockets, and she's not following him anywhere.

The fingers don't obey her anymore, but she tries curling them into a fist anyway. "No," she says. "I'll manage without you."

"Can you really afford to be so prideful?"

"It's not about pride."

And isn't this exchange ironic.

"You will end up cutting yourself on your principles," he says quietly, and his eyes have a certain sadness behind them. "My help is no double-edged sword."

Nothing can be said about that. She's certain he believes it to be true, but she's been on the receiving end too many times to know there is always some kind of price to be paid. _Ar lath ma_ —two years of doubt and heartbreak— _Skyhold_ —hers and not hers; an ancient secret he reclaimed and restored with the Inquisition's resources— _the Anchor_ —raw power at her fingertips followed by the loss of an arm.

A painful silence settles in. It's a physical presence in its own right, infusing the air she breathes with awkwardness. She doesn't want to feel inadequate, not again, and so the words rush out without much thought behind them.

"I want—" she begins.

Solas smiles. His head tilts. Too much effort has gone into painting his face blank; this passiveness is fake. He is either angry or annoyed or uncertain. Perhaps merely impatient, but that isn't much better.

"You want a great deal many things, vhenan," he states. "Very well."

"Very well?" she asks, unsure.

"Your demands will cost me nothing." He pauses, gaze traveling up and down her body. "Except perhaps a bit of time. Let's sit. I am weary."

He doesn't wait for her to respond, but turns and walks away to Abelas' tent. He holds the flap open for her, but she hesitates to follow.

On her right, Zevran is attempting to charm the pants off Abelas. Again. There's no telling what went through his head to think it a good idea after the Sentinel's icy glare.  Maybe he's bored. Then again, she never pretended to understand him.

And Isabela is still here, watching, smiling.

"I would go for you if not for your type," she tells Abelas, winking.

He looks stilted, mistrustful, as he stands surrounded by the two.

Zevran chuckles. "Ah, our Commander has a preference for—"

"Cock," Isabela supplies nonchalantly.

Zevran tuts. "I was going to say charm."

Bless their wicked hearts.

Abelas leaves without a word, trembling hand at the hilt of his sword and Zevran acting as his shadow. The man quite literally _flees_.

Isabela makes a shooing gesture. "Go," she says, "we'll be fine."

That is probably jargon for take-Solas-away-so-I-can-finally-steal-that-horse-without-being-immolated but Ellana smiles anyway. Isabela blows her a kiss.

"See you tonight," she says.

Solas stares. He says nothing but he stares, and the crinkles by his eyes deepen. He lowers his eyes until she's out of his field of view.

He looks sad, but remains respectfully quiet.

Surprisingly enough, Abelas' tent is equipped with a table. It's nothing great, but does a decent job of accommodating a dozen of small maps. One great swooping gesture from him is enough to overturn them, concealing whatever secrets are scribbled down from her prying eyes. There's a chair and something that looks like a cot.

Solas takes the chair.

She refuses to sit.

"I would like to offer you something," he says, perhaps a bit too hesitant for her liking. He wrings his hands. He won't meet her gaze.

"I don't want anything from you," she says, nails raking across the unyielding dragonbone of her staff.

"Want and need are two different concepts," Solas says.

"Send someone for the antidote. Or go yourself."

"You're not listening," he chides.

"Because you're trying to steer the conversation away from the matter at hand," she counters.

This is painful. She doesn't want to see him sad or exhausted. He chose to play god and now must look the part; she will not pity him his burden. He's spread himself far too thin and now struggles, but it is all his doing.

She doesn't want to feel sorry and she doesn't want to love him like this.

"All right," Solas says, waving his hand lazily through the air, "let me be blunt: I would like for you to come back with me."

She can't help herself. She scoffs. Smirks. Does it all at once and somehow it is not enough; she wishes there were more ways to convey her absolute awe at his _gall_.

Still.

Still, those words would have been nice to hear not so many years ago. _Come with me_ rather than _I can't_. This is Solas. Always too late. Now, everything he says feels like a prison.

"Why would I do that?" she says. "Do you think asking nicely will make up for everything else? You used me to bait Dorian. To draw my soldiers out of hiding. You didn't correct me when I thought I was making a difference, that I somehow was changing your mind—you just took what I gave." And there's no point even mentioning the magebane. It's a trivial offense in comparison to all the others. She feels a little disgusted at herself. "Don't. Just don't. I can't go through all of this again."

She leans on her staff, feels it dig through the cot. There's an odd wish at the back of her mind—it would be nice to have a second hand to drag down her face right about now.

"Why," Solas says, but it is no question. "Why," he repeats, "indeed. I would see you safe. You are so small, ma vhenan, and this world is cruel."

White hot rage shoots up her spine. "I am not. Stop saying that."

"But you are," he argues. "The Anchor gave you great power, but then it took everything and more. It drained you. Put up a front for me, but do not lie to yourself. Whenever you conjure a flame, something quenches it before it has the chance to burn bright. Your bolts hurt, but have long since failed to paralyze. Is that not so?"

She is out of breath quicker, sleeps longer. The little things are somewhat more arduous. And this isn't a discovery. Dorian voiced the same concern after studying the Anchor during the Exalted Council. A very powerful quiet before a horrible storm, he'd called it once she cast a protective barrier so fierce around their entire party that it flung back enemies.

She is more than a little worse for the wear, but aren't they all?

"It doesn't matter," she says, though the spite has gone out of her voice. "You are not my keeper, Solas. This is a very poor and unfair trade. I will not consider it. Send someone for the antidote." Perhaps if she repeats it often enough he'll finally hear her.

"Yes, a trade," Solas says. His chin rests on his fist now as he leans forth. "You should get something out of this, after all. And you will consider my offer, vhenan, because above else you seek to protect those you call your people. I seek to unite mine. Despite what you may believe, they do not all march under my banner—many are scattered, scared, or supporting you from afar. We can help each other."

"Stop talking," she says. "I am not interested."

"I will stay away if that is what you wish," Solas says, "I will not disturb you without reason, and you will have access to my resources."

There's a dull throbbing behind her eye. She stares at him and he upholds her gaze. Sustains it until she's forced to blink and look away.

Her thoughts are racing.

"Why," her voice catches in her throat and she coughs, "why would you do that?" Liar, she thinks.

"A lot of things are broken," he whispers, "and you should not meet such a fate."

He reaches across the table. Tries to caress the back of her hand with his knuckles where it curls over the grip of her staff. "Vhenan," he says, "ma sa'lath."

She steps back.

And there it is—the chip in his lie. Maybe he means it. Maybe he will allow her to play lord and master with his soldiers and resources, indulge her fancy for as long as it takes for her to thaw.

Long enough for those opposing him to calm down, her included.

"Stop," she says, "stop, I can't listen to—"

There is a commotion outside. Solas gets up, the motion nearly a blur. He rushes out.

An explosion ravages the ground, burning the already sparse grass. Flames crawl over the workers' tents and tools melt, cobblestone cracks, supplies get devoured. Weeks of work set back.

Arrows fly through the air and the Dalish around the camp collapse. It is almost syncrhonized; beautiful in a pragmatic, detached kind of way. The man who ran to fetch Abelas upon her arrival stumbles, gargling on a combination of blood and saliva, and falls to his knees. Unable to keep his balance, he topples over—the arrow rips completely through his chest, coming out the other side wet and shiny.

Above the cries and sounds of panic, Zevran's voice rings the loudest.

"They were workers," he screams at a hooded figure.

"Don't be naive," the man scowls, and that voice she knows all too well. Dorian kicks one of the fallen, rolling his corpse over to reveal a very fine leather belt strapped around his middle. The type that assassins wear to conceal daggers beneath clothing.

"You were not to intervene unless it got out of hand," Zevran growls.

"It got out of hand the day the Veil was brought down," Dorian scowls.

Solas is horrified. He is silent, and that perhaps is the true testament to how deeply Dorian managed to unsettle him. He looks at the blood, at the ground that drinks it in greedy gulps, searches the premises for the concealed archers. But they have already retreated behind the city's gates after striking.

Dorian is alone and unafraid.

"Get away from her," Dorian says. "Leave. Scrape the bloody pulp of your men from the ground and take it with you—I don't want anything of yours near my city."

"I did not attack. I was lenient. I would have let you go," Solas says. "This is a massacre."

The wave of magic that rolls off him is enough to make them all stagger. She is pushed back while Zevran and Isabela are simply knocked over. Abelas steps in front of her, his barrier snapping into place in the nick of time. His blade is bloody and drips onto her shoes.

She feels her toes get wet.

Dorian remains standing. Still, he struggles and his staff blade is embedded deeply into the earth, anchoring him.

The next time Solas lashes out, he sinks to his knees.

She does not have the time to think. It happens too fast. Once second Dorian is shaking, and the next Solas joins him on the ground.

Dorian's affected hand grabs him with impressive speed, fingers curling around his wrist and _pulling_. It's instinctual, thoughtless; he looks terrified at the notion that he would even reach out for him. And then there's that swirling darkness, the same that molded itself to fit Dorian's shape in the Tevinter temple.

But it can't be. The barrier remained. The shadow was not freed.

Only the arm somehow got severed.

Dorian attempts to jerk back. Solas mirrors him. They both seek to pull apart from each other, but for different reasons.

Dorian is desperate to retain possession of the corruption within him. Solas doesn't want it invading him.

But they pull—and pull—and pull—and at some point Dorian's arm gains a life and will of its own. The whorls of dark smoke slither to his fingers, and then his nails are raking over Solas' skin, breaking it, drawing blood.

"It is real," Solas mutters, "you were not lying." He sounds more than slightly deranged. His eyes are wild.

He yanks. Their dance resumes, but Dorian withers with every passing moment. He grows pale. Blood streams from his nose in thick rivulets, yet he holds on—or is unable to free himself or Solas.

She tries separating them.

For just a second. Only one.

Some magic—Dorian's or Solas or the Shadow's—lashes out when she attempts to interrupt. A deep cut forms down her forearm, just shy of a vein.

She turns to Abelas.

"Pull them apart," she pleads.

He is ancient. He served Mythal. He is Solas' second-in-command.

Abelas nods very slowly. He looks dazed. A faint shimmer settles over the air around him, heralding the raising of a barrier. It feels thicker than the last, but even that one breaks once he steps too close.

"I can't," he says, looking down at his hands in confusion, "I can't."

The ground has begun to crack.

Dorian is bleeding from the ears now and gasping; each breath is torturous. He is wheezing, and when he isn't his lungs make the strangest gurgling sounds. Solas keeps him upright with one arm, preventing his collapse. His lips move without pause, and she realizes he's healing Dorian even as the Shadow continually maims him.

It wouldn't do for the _thing_ to lose its host.

When she looks left again, Abelas is gone. He saddles a horse, hands working faster than she can breathe.

He can't leave. He can't just leave.

She catches the reins before he urges the horse into a gallop. But Abelas isn't Solas and has little, if none, care for her well-being. He nudges the animal with a sharp kick of his heels and its massive body forces her aside.

Her ribs will be sore for a week.

"Stay here," he orders. "I will be back soon."

But there's not enough time and Dorian's lips have turned a dull grey. He looks very much like the Grey Warden they lost at the doors of the temple. Solas must shake him awake at every turn, but even his strength is waning.

She can feel him casting. Fire, ice, lightning, some variation of a barrier, spells she has no name for. It is too much, too overwhelming.

This is what the clashing of titans must feel like to common folk caught in the aftershocks.

The unfamiliar magic encircles them, its confines growing ever larger. She can't approach them anymore. She doubts they would even hear her if she were to scream.

Zevran helps Isabela up. They scramble away. They both have cuts over their faces, but they're not leaving.

And when Abelas returns a good hour has passed, and he is not alone.

The man with him has been treated to a horse of his very own. He dismounts slowly, almost lazily, and even with his back to him Solas senses his approach. His head snaps in his direction.

He says something in elvhen, earning him a solemn nod.

She's never met one quite like him. His hair is longer than she's ever seen on a man and his eyes so dark the pupil is all but swallowed. He is like Solas, like Abelas, tall and proud and holding himself in a manner not befitting this age, his brow bare of vallaslin.

"Ahn garem?" he asks, only barely tilting his head toward Abelas.

"Era'harel, ma'tarlen," Abelas responds, pointing at Dorian.

He stalks past her, leans in until he can study the imperceptible cage his kin is trapped within. His brow creases and as he arches to straighten his back a talisman shakes loose from his robes.

It sings with magic. It is ugly. Two pieces from very different, very shattered wholes it is. The right grey and simple, inlaid with silver, the left a dainty work of crystal and amber within which tendrils of grass twist around one another.

The stranger catches her staring.

He is so pale, she thinks.

Her head hurts from just being close to him.

"How will he help?" she asks. "Another Sentinel, Abelas?"

But the man answers first. He bumps her on the nose with his knuckles and laughs, even as disdain colors both his tone and look. "Te'olathe'lan," he says, shaking his head.

It occurs to her he's waiting for her to let him pass. She opens her mouth again and once more he cuts her off.

He does not speak this time. He brings two long, bony fingers to his lips and gives them a tap. Then, a simple shrug and nothing more.

He doesn't understand her and she can't understand him. It's pointless. His message is clear.

He doesn't approach the static cage, choosing instead to wander toward the nearest tree to snap off a branch. He conducts a rapid examination of its thickness and length before returning to his horse. Only a gentle caress is offered to the animal before he stabs it in the throat.

The animal goes down with a strangled whine. Even Abelas closes his eyes as he physically turns away from the bloody spectacle.

She feels faint.

And the meager twig—it drinks from the wound. It grows. It twists. Expands into something large and ugly. Grows branches of its own that look more maroon than brown. If morning light falls just right, if she fails to blink, then small vessels appear beneath.

Vessels that pulsate with something very much like blood.

The bark shares territory with tufts of coarse dark hair bearing a striking resemblance to the dead horse's coat.

The stranger gives a small smile before testing his newest staff's weight.

She gets sick right then and there, kneeling before a bush. Nothing comes out but bile, scorching her throat in its wake.

Out of all the people, Abelas is the one to lend assistance, helping her up with strong hands. He isn't shaken in the same way she is, but there is disgust written plain and clear all over his features.

"What kind—what kind of sick—" she begins but can't finish. The staff is in clear view. She can't stop looking at it. It vibrates with magic, branches moving, blood thrumming.

It _lives_ , this abomination of a different kind.

"Stay quiet," Abelas says.

By now, Solas has embraced Dorian with his free arm. He's as unhappy as can be about the arrangement, but it's the only way to keep him from passing out. He looks over his shoulder, locking eyes with the stranger.

He says something, the words too archaic and spoken too quickly for her to pick up anything. A manner of some spell or other, it must be, for the stranger after him as if to memorize the taste on his own lips.

They both say it back and forth until something changes in the air; it becomes easier to breathe.

Then the man just nods and thrusts his staff through the cage.

She expects some grandiose display of power.

Instead, the semblance of a barrier burns quietly and peacefully around Dorian and Solas. The darkness slowly crawls back up Dorian's arm and away from Solas, seeking shelter beneath his skin. His eyes roll back and he is finally released.

She winces when his temple collides with the ground. There will be a deep bruise later.

And she has never seen Solas so distraught. He loses balance once, twice, three times before righting himself. He wrenches the macabre staff away from the stranger before shattering it over his own knee; the vestiges are set aflame.

The man takes a careful step back, hands rising in a defensive gesture. "Harellan, sathan."

Please. She knows that word. _Please_. But there is nothing pleading about his tone. And that other one as well. _Trickster_.

The modern elves grovel before him. None would dare accuse—no, insult him in such a manner.

Solas makes as if to reach for the talisman he wears, but changes his mind at the last minute.

"Ma serannas," he rasps, though that too doesn't sound sincere. A courtesy, nothing more. Custom demands he say it.

There is little love between the two. Even less respect.

Abelas leaves her side. He looks so small next to them that she's griped by a twinge of fear.

She first sees it in the corner of her eyes, but soon her vision is filled with them—artifacts, scattered along the coast, slowly come alive with a faint blue glow. They hum with magic, surrounding Minrathous and its waters.

Solas closes the gap between them. His jaw is stained with Dorian's blood he hasn't yet wiped it off. He looks like he wants to lean against her.

She offers him no support.

"I bury this wretched city on this time next morning," he says.

The wind steals away his hideous scarf.


	37. Not Quite Broken

Solas heals Dorian.

Grudgingly, painstakingly, carelessly.

The Shadow does not attempt to ensnare him a second time. She can't pinpoint the exact moment when it ceased being a mystery better left alone and became an entity in its own right.

She remembers Solas' hands as the whisper of a caress, a mere gust of air neither cool nor hot, whenever he put them on her to pop a dislocated joint into place or quell an internal hemorrhage.  Dorian knows no gentleness. He is treated to rough edges and unpolished curves, as crude as magic comes. He is unconscious , but strains against the feeling even so.

When Solas steps back, he is no longer bleeding, though remains terrible pale.

"Thank you," she says to his back because facing him directly will devour her resolve. She will break and bite and lash out, resort to sarcasm and bitterness when now is not the time for them.

He didn't have to do it.

"This is no kindness," Solas says. His fingers are busy scraping the dried blood from his jaw, flakes coming off with every stroke. "Only a necessity."

He's never been this person with her before. The timbre of his voice bordering on a growl, apathy seeping into his usually honeyed tones, words harsh and cutting. He does not talk—he snaps. This is the man who openly insulted the Qunari agent sent to broker a truce. The same man who conducted verbal spats laced with spite and disdain with Vivienne.

He is angry, and this time she is the beneficiary.

He doesn't look at her, only walks right past toward an artifact.

"Where will you go?" he asks.

To Qarinus, to Vivienne and Feynriel and Maevaris provided they are still there. And maybe along the way one of Leliana's pretty birds will catch up to them.

"Away," she says tiredly.

"Be specific," he snaps. "I will tell you which route is safest."

"No," she says.

How quickly his offer to join forces expired.

She doubts he'll give her anything now.

The artifact shines brighter once he's done with it. It pulsates with unstable energy which then spreads to all the other relics scattered along the coast. A barrier, she understands, lest they decide to shatter them.

The Stranger sits with his back propped against a tree. He converses with Abelas, their voices hushed from where she stands. He is surprisingly physical, all traveling hands and expressive eyes.

And Abelas—he is not exactly quiet, no that's not it, perhaps reserved would be a better term though even that doesn't cut it. She tries reading him, but he is no open book, not even a tiny parchment. Simply blank.

She gives up, turning to Solas who is staring at the looming shadow of Minrathous with such vehemence it's a wonder the city doesn't crumble right then and there.

A crushing prison, he said. She remembers and shivers.

Zevran pulls Dorian into a sitting position; Isabela gathers his staff and settles near. They encircle him, trying to entice his parched throat into accepting some water from a wineskin as he drifts between states of consciousness.

"Fucking mages," Isabela mutters.

Indeed.

She doesn't know why she opens her mouth, why she's even trying. She owes Solas nothing, but his silence is crushing.

She reaches out. Places her hand—her good hand of flesh and bone, the one that feeds off warmth, rather than the extension of the failed prosthetic—on his shoulder to gain his attention. She wouldn't be touching him under different circumstances; he is warm and it makes him _real_ , and she thinks she finally understands the weight with which he used to utter it.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," she says quietly.

"It matters very little," Solas says, but he doesn't shun her touch even though his spine has gone rigid.

"Give us more time," she says. "I don't want to stay here. We will leave, I promise, but we can't do it in less than a day." There will be an uproar. People will refuse to budge from a city equipped to handle years of siege.

"No," he says, unmoved. "You threw away that opportunity. I was willing to wait—I am not anymore."

He stands among the blood of his men, draping guilt about her shoulders like a heavy shroud, and forgets all that which he's spilled himself.

She is tempted to remind him of the hypocrisy he so blindly embraces, but only bites the inside of her cheek.

"Then lend us men to help evacuate." A hard jerk when he tries to get away, her fingers finding the hollow just above his clavicle and sinking in for purchase.

"I have no reason to do that," he says.

"What happened to working together?" And now it's getting hard to keep her voice neutral.

"An effort to last a second—that is not what I seek and you refuse to concede to more."

She scoffs. "Don't talk in poems."

"It is hardly one," he says, shoulder finally rolling out of her grip. "You ought to read more; ever the poor student."

She feels the loss of him. Feels him slipping away. Feels the walls of hardiness and resolve rise around his mind until she's left shattering her fist bloody against them.

"Vhenan," she says, "Solas." She takes one step after him, a second, a third—because who else if not she? He doesn't listen, but time and again she's managed to chip away at his barrier with tools of affection.

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

He faces her. He looks pained and somewhat disheartened. And she does not like that look in his eyes at all.

"Don't use that word in vain. Keep it safe from ill intent," he says, solemn, the calmness of his tone clashing with the myriad of emotions succeeding one another across his features. Then softly, gently, as if demonstrating the proper way, "Vhenan."

And he smiles just like that. So simply.

"I will not help you," he says, "and you have until next morning. Not an hour more, not a second. My offer still stands, but I will not spare Minrathous."

Then his hand is in her hair, catching on knots, and he uses the leverage to bring her close. The brush of his lips is feather-light against her forehead, and he releases her before she regains enough presence of mind to push him off.

"It is no longer morning," he says absently, gaze trailing heavenward. "Good day, fenorain."

He leaves, beckoning Abelas and the Stranger to follow. But there is only one horse and three of them; the one Isabela attempted to steal has run off in the commotion. Solas looks unsure, but mounts the lone animal anyway.

A brisk canter, and he disappears into the ravaged forest. Soon whatever eluvian they used will activate, soon they will all be gone.

Soon she'll be able to breathe, but not in relief.

Abelas makes to follow, but the Stranger steers into a different direction—toward her. He closes the distance between them in three long steps and repeats an earlier gesture.

Two fingers raised to his lips. A gentle tap.

She tilts her head. "I can't understand you."

Abelas looks like he wants to intervene. He even circles them before settling for cautious observation.

And the man is tall, taller than Solas, his shoulders broader, his hair a ridiculous length but finely groomed. He towers over her and so when he leans in, his approach is all but subtle. One hand curls around the back of her neck while the other grips her collar.

He doesn't kiss her.

It doesn't feel like a kiss.

It's brutal and demanding and he's not moving. His lips urge hers apart and when breathes a warm trickle of magic bounces along her tongue, mingling with her breath, his, theirs.  He draws everything she has out of her lungs. Her air isn't her own anymore, and when he pulls back she can still feel the jolts of something very akin to electricity slip between the fine cracks of her lips.

His auburn locks tickle the sides of her face as he slowly draws away.

The man pulls back, first one hesitant step and then three staggering ones, palms going to his temples as if in an attempt to drown out some terrible noise. He winces, nose wrinkling, eyebrows knitting into a severe V.

When he speaks, she understands.

"So much warmth—venhedis—wrong dialect—trial and faith and grace—Andraste—worship." It's an incoherent mess, as if he aims to spit out anything and everything. He talks in a thick accent, tongue catching at the unforgiving R's of the Common and slipping into a melodic lilt at softer words.

At last he exhales and his shoulders slump.

"By your grace," he begins, shakes his head, corrects himself. "You are most gracious. I thank you." The next part is addressed to no one in particular; if anything, he looks like he's speaking to the air, "I detest this spell."

"Couldn't have done it sooner?" she asks, still shaken and sounding not nearly as strict as intended.

"I had no interest in your language before," the man admits, shrugging. "It sounded primitive and now I see that it is. The vocabulary lacks the finer terms of Elvhen."

Before what?

"Well, have a blessed day then," she says because, really, what else is there to add? They are quite literally on a clock and she won't stay here to converse with some stranger from another time.

She turns to leave, but he grabs her wrist, spins her around. Once more, Abelas looks like he wants to step in and yet again relents.

"He aims to reduce this city of yours to ash," he says.

"Yes, I know," she says, prying his fingers off one by one.

"Would I be correct in my assumption that you have caravans, supplies, wagons? They won't get through."

"Yes," she says once again, "the bridge is much too small and we've no time to rebuild it."

The man flashes her a grin. It isn't wide, definitely not predatory, but still has a deeply unsettling quality about it. He runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it out as she watches the auburn strands fall back down to past his ribcage.

He doesn't move, but something in the air changes. It grows thick.

Then there's a terrible sound at her back. A veritable ruckus. She twirls on her heels just in time to witness bricks and polished stone emerge from Minrathous' murky waters. Already slightly eroded and chipped, some wrapped in algae, they return to the pattern they've been forced out. Stone by stone, ornament by ornament, the bridge is born anew under the direction of a man with dark eyes and restrained smile.

"I can rebuild most things," he whispers. "I am quite good at it. Or at least was. There isn't much left of me."

He looks paler, his skin nearly translucent, and this time Abelas does approach to lend a steady hand. Without a word, he begins guiding him away.

"Melena," the man rasps, sounding hoarse, "melena," he repeats, pushing Abelas away. _Wait, wait._

Her tongue feels too heavy for her mouth. She almost wishes Abelas was the one holding her because at this very instant her knees are cotton and her mind blank.

She doesn't know what to say.

Her gaze drifts madly between the resurrected crossing, the Stranger and the stern Sentinel but none offer answers.

As if what just happened is an everyday occurrence.

Her lips part, but her mouth is impotent. She almost chokes on her questions; they are too numerous and fighting one another for dominance.

"I have exhausted myself," the man says, and it's true. She sees it in the way he holds himself, barely able to stand without assistance. "Indulge my curiosity. A favor for a favor, if you must."

She narrows her eyes, wary. "What kind of favor?"

"A mere answer. There is a spell about you. You wore vallaslin once. Whose?"

She remembers the pale blue ink, the whorls and curlicues along her cheekbones. How it split her lips down the middle and traveled along the expanse of her throat like a promise of something more. Branches and spirals as a gift to the clever ones.

"June's," she says, hesitant.

There is no harm in admitting it. The Craftsman belongs to memories now, his foci the first they destroyed. Nothing remains of him—no dormant power, no frescoes, and no ink within her veins.

Abelas looks away.

The Stranger sighs. An eerie calm overcomes him. "Mine were always the smart ones," he murmurs. "You may take me away now, falon."

He comes close to falling, but Abelas rights him and bears his weight in silence.

She sits because she can't stand.

The bile at the back of her throat threatens to make a reappearance.


	38. Gifts Cannot Be Refused

It turns ridiculous somewhere halfway through. Even pale and with bloodless lips, Dorian is unhappy as can be. Lethargy accompanying blood loss clearly hasn't seized him.

He shows her the finger when her voice climbs in volume. She doesn't reach for him because despite everything he is packing, and his anger is on an entirely different level than hers.

"I can't believe you're defending him," he snarls.

"I'm not defending anyone," she snaps back, "you moron."

"Ah, there's the favored word. I had him, he was on his knees and you had to intervene."

"You had nothing. You were bleeding from your ears. You dabbled in ancient magic and nearly died like a dog."

And that ends the argument because there's no way he can spin that. After all, he reeks of iron and his face is smeared with maroon grime.

She throws her hands up—the real and the mockery finally collaborating in this one act of frustration—before leaving. She slams the door. Hard. There needs to be three more between them to come even close to the feeling of satisfaction.

Solas is mad at her. Dorian is mad at her. The whole universe frowns down upon her, and only Zevran squeezes her hand in affection before waltzing away.

It will pass, but it still stings.

She doesn't have much to pack. Nothing at all, really. Even the clothes on her back aren't her own, provided by Dorian and altered by a seamstress. It's odd that they have one, but stranger things have happened.

There's not enough horses to pull wagons.

She wonders if Dorian can bring back to a semblance of life a few carcasses. What she wouldn't give for a dozen of bog unicorns right about now.

She closes her eyes and presses her face to her knees, willing the world to go away for just a minute.

She doesn't want to think of who will carry Wynne, still unconscious and growing ever colder.

She doesn't want to even try to guess all that they will have to leave behind.

Most of all, she doesn't want to think about where they will be going.

*

It goes from ridiculous to ludicrous in a matter of hours. People are restless. They ask questions she has no answers to. They look up to Dorian, but he's locked himself away until the final hour.

It's a horrible thing to wish for, but it would have been better to have less civilians. No, not better— easier. That makes her feel less like a hypocrite. Soldiers are disciplined whereas  a good portion of these people aren't. Whatever military forces they still command have better things to do than quiet down unrest.

When one of their mares staggers, head bowed and froth gathering on her flanks, before collapsing, she decides that enough is enough. That was a Green Dales Feral, a massive brute of an animal that just fell from exhaustion. The rest of their mounts are lean, spirited coursers best suited for the battlefield. Sure they could easily accommodate their individual chevaliers, but as it happens what they need carried may just end up equaling the combined weight of five or six of those.

They'll not make it far like this.

Zevran dogs her steps.

"And where do you think you're going?" he asks, eyes narrowing. "We have less than a day left."

"There is an eluvian nearby," she says. "I am going to find it." Then bang on it a few times and hope Solas comes running. Not quite a traditional doorbell, but it will have to do.

"Let me get some water," Zevran says.

"You're not coming," she says.

Who knows how vengeful Solas can be. He mourns his fortress more than their departed friends. At least she tells herself that, repeats it over and over. Because such truth would dehumanize him and she stills sees him in shades of grey.

"And my daggers," Zevran continues.

"You're not coming," she repeats.

"Perhaps this shirt needs changing. Do I stink?"

She thrusts her staff in his way before he follows her down the bridge. She still expects the structure to come undone beneath her feet yet it stands, sturdy and odd. Zevran guides the staff away with one finger, as if it is no more than an annoying fly, nose wrinkling.

"Stay back or I'll make you," she says.

He doesn't listen. They bicker some more on the way down.

Once on solid ground, Zevran glares at one of the artifacts along the coast before attempting, in vain, to kick it. The force of the blow is turned against him as the barrier surges to protect its charge, and he hobbles a little before righting himself.

"Is that the thanks I get for getting you your arm back?" he asks.

"Yes," she says. "Absolutely. Undoubtedly. Stay here. Safe and sound and away from the man whose fortress you brought down. In case you haven't noticed, he's still sore about that."

Zevran makes a face. "Fine," he sighs, "but this your loss."

"Come back soon," he adds, this time without a twinge of mockery or sarcasm.

*

The eluvian is sinfully loud. It hums. She feels its echo long before nearing it. Solas needs not conceal them anymore. The distant magical signature permeates the air for miles around.

At first, she throws a rock at it, knowing nothing will happen. Still, it feels somewhat good to deface the frame's intricate woodwork.

This is not the one he told her about back when he was trying to talk her out of seeking Dorian, but it's the closest. Not that she ever had the key to that other one either. The end result will be the same.

She looks back at Minrathous, at the sun where it is perched high in the sky indicating midday, and squares her shoulders.

She casts.

Anything she can think of.

Frost and lighting and flames. A fire mine within a static cage with a sprinkling of frost on top. For a little while, her corner of the world knows the chaos of elements.

Then the eluvian is no longer an empty gateway and its surface ripples with swirling mauves and blues.

"There are more conventional ways of communicating," Abelas says, dodging a fireball as he steps out. "And certainly less dangerous."

"I'm not riding all the way back. Too time consuming," she says. Finally, she's free to dig her staff blade deep into the earth and lean against it. "And I had no bird to send."

"I see your point," he says and immediately scowls. "What do you need?"

Doesn't he sound especially arrogant today. Even a little bit pleased. She can't go around punching him in the jaw when she needs something from him—from Solas.

"Zevran is doing well," she says. "Much better now that he doesn't have to pretend to love the sight of your old, wrinkly—"

Abelas winces. Actually winces. His faces contorts into the most beautiful grimace. He waves his hand to silence her.

Why do they hate each other again? Abelas is an elitist ass but he's never been cruel. At least not to her. It's unimportant right now; she shakes the thought out of her head.

"That's quite enough," he manages between gritted teeth. "Well, go on then. I'm assuming you wish to see him."

She hesitates before going through. "You have the key to this eluvian?" she asks.

"I have keys to all of them," he replies, and puts his hand on the small of her back, ushering her forward with a not-so-gentle push.

Keys—or spells—or whatever it is that Solas uses now to activate his looking glasses of old—and Abelas has access to them all. This speaks volumes, but she's unsure as to what to make of it. For now, it's something to contemplate.

Going through always left her queasy. Now is no exception. She stumbles a little, even as Abelas comes out unshaken. He only lazily pulls at his gloves before setting off onto a beaten path.

They emerge a small distance away from the fortress, but nothing that would take hours. Right on the outskirts of the forest Zevran and she spent so long ambling aimlessly through. Except it is no forest anymore. Gone is the lush greenery and the clusters of spirits. Instead, the soil is dry and crumbling.

Dust rises with their every step.

Terror talons. Shadow essence. Dreamer rags. Everywhere. Loitering the ground.

The silence reigns undisturbed.

"Where are the spirits?" she says, wondering when exactly that wavering note crept into her tone.

And Abelas is quiet too; almost respectful in his silence. He does not mock. "Gone," he says. "They were corrupted."

She can't imagine how Solas must have felt putting them down.

But then she thinks good, let him see what he's done to the world. How utterly irreversible the damage he inflicted is.

There are less people than she remembers.  Most of them soldiers and Sentinels. Common folk have gone, the only memento they were ever here at all manifesting in the form of distinct hoof prints. They need no protection now; they're free to live in peace, but always close to Solas' walls.

Abelas guides her through the gates and up a spiraling staircase. He offers she waits in the dining hall but she refuses, feeling claustrophobic at the sight of the massive double doors.

"Very well, pace the corridors," he says, shrugging. "It matters not to me."

Of course not.

She ends up going a little too far, rounding too many corners. Solas will find her either way. She briefly considers making a trek back to her old quarters to retrieve the replica of her dragon scale armor. The Avvar twill of her robes is old and dirty, coming apart thread by thread.

She even begins turning around, her body instinctively remembering the way. Then her concentration is mercifully shattered by rushing servants. Some of them mutter, others curse, and the rest just flee with wide eyes.

Smoke laps at their heels.

They go left and she goes right, toward the commotion. It seems to be coming from the library, and her heart seizes painfully. There were nice books there, she remembers. Not many, but a few nevertheless. She doesn't want to see them burn.

Except nothing's on fire. And the only sight she's greeted with is the one of a prancing June. He's pushed the shelves apart to make room for a imposing table, not unlike the one she used to play war and preparations beneath Cullen's watchful eye.

He looks a little deranged as he mutters to himself. Smoke pours from his fingers like a youthful spring, until he gives it a disinterested shake to make it vanish.

Then he looks up at her. He stares. He doesn't seem to see her.

He blinks and she blinks back.

There's a bloody, dead nug at his feet. Or at least she hopes it is dead. She's never hoped for anything harder in her life.

"Oh, greetings," he says. "Will you braid my hair, da'len? It gets in the way an awful lot. I'm afraid my hands are aflame."

He doesn't even seem surprised to see her.

As if to demonstrate, his palms heat until they resemble hot coals. He grips a book and it is reduced to cinders, the leathery spine the last to go in the inferno.

At the back of her mind—at the very, very back where she's willing to disregard that he is a being of legends—lingers the suggestion that he braid his own damn hair. Shouldn't have grown it out to such ridiculous lengths in the first place.

Instead she coughs a little and says, "I only have one hand."

"Just get it out of my eyes," June singsongs, not listening. His voice would be a beautiful distraction under different circumstances.

"Only one hand. I can hardly get my own to cooperate."

"Ah," he says. "Apologies. Yes, I see, yes."

He flicks his wrist. The air around her heats and, for an ephemeral moment, she can't breathe. But then the sensation of burning alive travels ever lower, finds her mangled limb as well as the prosthetic attached to it.

The dawnstone heats until it is close to melting. The enchanted wood darkens. The dead runes clatter to the ground.

She watches in horror as patches of exposed skin blister, popping and leaking fluid, causing flesh around to flake off. She yelps in pain as much as in fright, but then everything goes oddly numb.

Wood and dawnstone bleed together into an unrecognizable alloy. It burrows deep beneath her wrist, finds bone and latches on to it.

And now it is not hot but cold.

When she thinks of her fingers—a fleeting thought, no more—they twitch in response. Then move fluidly. She grazes her cheek and feels an echo of sensation. It is muted, but present.

The strap linking the prosthetic to her shoulder falls away, useless.

"I remember you," June suddenly exclaims. "I built a bridge for you."

And forced his tongue down her throat. Well, almost.

She still can't quite breathe. "What—what was this?"

"You said you had only one hand," he says, and now he sounds a little annoyed. As if she is stupid. As if there's a clearer-than-day explanation floating in the room with them and she fails still to grasp it. "I obliged."

"I didn't ask you for it." It feels like she's stuttering. She wants her tongue to cooperate, to be brave and strong and on the ready, but it fumbles awkwardly in her mouth. Her mind remembers the pain even as her body forgets it.

Suddenly being given an arm back, it turns out, is infinitely more shocking than have it being stolen.

"Yes, yes," June says again. "Yes, I remember more clearly. You had cold lips and your language did not want to pass to me. You wear my markings beneath your skin. I remember, I remember. The girl who willingly pledged herself to me and then murdered that promise."

"I was never in your service," she says. "I chose my vallaslin out of stupid, aesthetic reasons." However foolish it is to admit aloud.

"By association then," he says, eyes wandering, and he makes even less sense than before.

He is not only taller than Solas; he even looks a little older. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. He runs a hand through his ridiculous, long hair nearly the color of caked blood in the candlelight.

"Forgive me," he says, shaking his head. "I forget myself. There are a lot of thoughts—too many pains—too many years. My mind is overflowing."

Leave it to her to wear the vallaslin of the pantheon's resident madman.

June leans down to bring them to eye level. His back curbs and his smile rides up on one side. With him so close, she finally picks up on the little details. He is so different from Solas. The crow's feet at his eyes are more pronounced; laughing lines live by his lips; his right eye is a shade paler than the left. Small details—unsettling details.

He doesn't talk like a god.

He doesn't behave like a god.

He touches her face and says, "I do like your hair. It is good to see that one of our traits survived through the ages."

And he stills shares Solas' views on her kind. How comforting.

"Ghilan'nain was like the first snow, but Sylaise was wheat," he continues, almost absentmindedly, his gaze going out of focus. "You are very pale," he concludes.

His medallion—talisman—whatever it is—swings back and forth, nearly bumping her on the nose. She reaches out to push it out of the way. Heavy as it is, it might very well leave her with a bruise should it connect.

June swats her wrist away. It is almost painful.

"No," he chides. "It is all that remains of me. All that keeps me together. Do not touch it. It plays tricks on me, but would destroy you."

She needs to leave right now. She's not sure how much more of this madness she can stomach.

He is unhinged.

"Off you go now," June says. He closes his eyes. Breathes deep. His shoulders slump and when he looks again, most of the intensity has left his gaze. He backs away from her. "Off you go," he repeats, voice hoarse as he stares at her arm then at his own hands with something akin to disgust. "Run back to Fen'Harel. You are not what I agreed to restore, though you are most shattered."

He finally sounds like himself, or at least the self she met on the coast of Minrathous. He pushes her out the door.

That is how Solas finds her, rooted in place. She hears his sharp intake of breath before she sees him, and then he's pulling her arm away from her chest, cradling it like a wounded beast.

Wave after wave of healing magic crash against her mended extremity, but she feels nothing. Some of the blisters disappear, and that's pleasurable enough, but beyond that her skin is numb to sensation.

"What has he done to you?" Solas says. "You should not have gone to see him. He is unwell."

After she manages to swallow, she finds her words. "He gave me back my arm. That's more than you ever did."

Then she rounds on him. "What were you thinking?" she asks, nearly shaking. "What were you thinking, Solas? You alone are bad enough for this world—and you bring back this—this—psychopath?"

 "My affairs are my own," Solas states, jaw set tight. He takes one step away, forcing her to follow. Away from June. Away from the library and the nug carcass. "Why have you come?"

"I need the antidote," she says, " and twenty horses."

"You will get five," he says. "I will not deprive my men of their mounts."

"I said twenty. You owe me much more than that."

"Ir abelas."

But he is not sorry even if his brow furrows and he looks down. He wears the same sweater, an old tattered thing that comes undone just like her robes. And aren't they a striking pair, the Dread Wolf and the Inquisitor, dressed in rags.

"You look horrible," she says.

"I do not sleep well," Solas admits. "Why will you not consider my offer? It is generous. Your people would not have to leave. We could put this fighting behind us."

Her eye starts to twitch. Again. Always. She wants to grip him by the collar and shake him. Bash his head with a particularly hard rock to instill some notion of reality within.

But he only gazes upon her sadly—and he still does not understand.

"My people are not defined by a common heritage. My people are human, dwarves and, yes, elves," she says. "We stand united because that is what good people do, but you wouldn't know the difference."

He sighs. Drags a hand down his face until his eyelids flutter shut and for a while he simply breathes.  When his voice does come, it is not quite a whisper but so very low.

"I will get you your horses," Solas murmurs. "I will get you the antidote and write the formula down as requested, but I am afraid it will do you little good."

He tries to take her hand. He says, "There are other people. People who are willing to listen and make decisions more sensible than yours. People with a following much larger and equally devoted."

He dons the mask of one apologetic. "You may not find friends where you head."

She wrenches her hand away.


	39. Whatsoever a Man Soweth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shamelessly stole the chapter title from the Witcher DLC. Teehee.

She doesn't care what he thinks. It doesn't matter. She may have fewer friends now, but all of them are true.

She doesn't give him more than silence.

Solas intercepts a page. Wide eyes betraying trepidation at being accosted by Fen'Harel himself, he is nevertheless eager to please and quick on his feet. He rubs his chin, fingers tracing patterns that are no longer there. Dirthamen, if she had to guess, or perhaps Falon'Din. Now the whorls are long gone, but his skin remembers the ink still. Much like hers.

"Yes, my lord," he says, neck straining as he nods again and again. He doesn't question the ridiculous amount of horses Solas requests for the head groom to ready.

He just leaves, a spring to his step, as she watches him with a sour taste in her mouth.

"My lord," she repeats, unable to stop her nose from wrinkling at the title. "You claim to despise the notion of godhood, but being a benevolent king is much different I take it."

Where is your crown, she wants to ask but bites her tongue.

"That is what they call me," Solas says, unconcerned. "In the end, it matters not how the People address me. Only my actions toward them do."

"The words of a king. How heavy the crown must be upon your brow," she drawls.

She doesn't know why it affects her so much. Two words, only two, spoken by an overeager youth. They shouldn't make a difference.

It hurts. It hurts to see that in so short a while Solas gained that much respect—one not laced with fear despite his bloody actions. He isn't loathed, and if she along with her merry little band are the only to do so then they're the ones chasing chaos.

She is tired of fighting.

Who exactly is she trying to save?

Solas wouldn't have touched the civilians either way. His quarrel was always with Dorian—and for good reasons.

She shakes her head, conscious of his heavy gaze falling over her like a shadow. This is a path full of regret and doubt she will not embark upon just now. She can't.

"That is not an argument you will win, vhenan," Solas says, almost tender in the way he articulates each word. "There is much you are unaware of, but know that I was never venerated. You were dubbed the Herald of modern religion. Why, you know more of worship than I will ever."

"Is that envy I hear?"

"Hardly."

And then he's smiling. That soft, indulging curving of the lips that always came out to play whenever he found her amusing in the past.

A small, new scar lives an inch or two above the old one at his chin. Her work—the crystal pitcher's parting gift. The Dread Wolf bleeds and the Dread Wolf scars, and he's kept this violent memento of hers.

"However," he says, his thumb rubbing circles into the not-quite-skin of her restored arm, though she seldom feels it, "it is commendable that you are still trying to do good by those you see as yours. Even if they are undeserving."

"Are you mocking me?" she asks, trying to jerk away but aborting the motion at the last minute. There is a wall at her back and she doesn't need to crash her elbow against it.

"No, no," he is quick to soothe. "I offer praise sincere and heartfelt. Nothing more."

But that's not what he's doing. Not entirely. He is stalling for time, painfully dragging it out and buying seconds by the dozen. He is so good at talking; one of his words amounts to five of hers. She will listen and listen and then she'll get lost trying to think of a way to make her own tongue dance as elegantly as his to not feel so incompetent.

Those moments used to feel different before. She would listen to him for hours, and now she just can't. It's the little details that reawaken longing; sadness over no longer witnessing his disgusted expressions at yet another cup of tea eclipsing the pain of the night in Crestwood.

"I have to go back," she says. "When will my horses be ready? You haven't given me the antidote yet."

When she sidesteps, he catches her by the elbow, head slowly shaking.

"You should stay," he says. He pulls her in, anchors her. "Your friends are few and powerless."

He is not close enough to intrude, but still too close and this time she has a second hand to bat his away.

"And do you consider yourself my friend, Solas?" she says, grateful that the new extension to her bruised stump barely picks up sensations. It is odd, but not unpleasant; a semblance of protection in this case. "Do you consider yourself _powerful_?"

Because that's the true question, isn't it? A measure of authority, if not outright godhood. How she hates that concept.

They are not friends anymore.

"Answering with questions is a weak conversation tactic," Solas says. "It does not shield you. Only betrays what is on your mind."

Superfluous advice. She is not playing the Game with him.

And he still hasn't answered her.

He reaches into his pocket, the gesture almost too casual, and pulls out a little vial. She snatches it away before he demands something in return.

"You came prepared," she remarks.

"You are not hard to predict," he says. "You made your demands very clear; I merely remembered.  However, I'm afraid I do not carry quill and parchment and ink at all times. Follow me?"

He offers her his arm, bent at the elbow. She stares for a moment too long, and it feels like déjà vu.

Suddenly, she doesn't want the formula nearly as much. Nor does she have the time to wait while he finds a suitable man to play test subject.

Through the window, the sun carries the reminder that it is past midday.

And there is something else.

He got his Sentinels slaughtered by Dorian in a bid to control Minrathous. He forgot about her for weeks while the two waged a private war. He got attacked by a wisp of ancient magic Dorian welcomed into his body.

And he is entirely too calm.

"Are you not concerned?" she asks, frowning. "Not at all?" Are they really no better than ants?

She doesn't know why she asks—why would he give her the truth, after all?

His arm drops. "Not anymore," he says, expression suddenly overrun by neutrality. "My fight was with Dorian, and he will not remain standing for too long now. I know you never supported his destructive quest; you are no danger."

"Dorian is fine," she says, words coming out too quickly. "You healed him. He is fine."

"I doubt that," Solas says with a shrug. "Even so, it will not matter after tomorrow."

The vial warms the center of her palm, where it is nestled. She fears she might be gripping it too hard. An idle, passing thought because he is very good at supplying her doubts with arsenal.

Not that she has many plans as it is.

His lips briefly glide over her cheek, feather-light and not quite there, before brushing her own. It's not even a kiss, barely a touch at all in its briefness. Yet it is his breath, hot and moist and slipping between the fine cracks of her mouth, that makes it all so very real.

And she doesn't really know when he got so close.

She will never be truly free of him, she thinks. Not even because he pursues, but because she can't help but remember. She is the pathetic one.

The fresh scar at his chin grounds her. She recalls the pitcher, the satisfaction of watching him pick glass from his cuts. She steps back.

"Go through Nevarra, if you must," Solas says, voice very quiet. "Or come back through it." A shake of the head is enough to smother her glare of protest. "It is peaceful and the people there are kind."

It's not quite an explosion, but it rattles the ground. She grips Solas for he is closer than the wall, and he winces a little as her unnatural fingers burrow into his skin.

June throws the door to the library open. He beckons Solas with one long finger, and over his shoulder she sees the source of the disruption. It is encased in a static cage, pieces held up and reassembled by pale wisps of magic. Like a corpse with a spirit puppeteer, they too fill the cracks.

They speak in loud, archaic Elvhen. Solas puts an arm out to block her, but she fights him. She will not be hidden away once more.

He reaches out, green light lazily pouring from his hand and creeping toward the shattered monstrosity. It settles, content and quiet. Energy no longer comes off it in waves. June nods once, appeased.

He goes to close the door when she senses it. A crackling in her own palm, and this time it is no small, muted feeling. It pulsates like the Anchor once did but without all the pain.

"Ah," says June, head cocked to one side, eyes trained on her hand, "so that is what I tasted." He smiles. Taps his sealed lips with his fingers as a reminder of when he locked them over her own.

But she's not listening. She stares at the artifact. At the orb. Solas' broken foci where it still peers at her, predatory, from behind June's tall frame.

The symbols were so familiar. She finally has her finger on it and she wishes she didn't.

Broken and reassembled, deformed and mangled—it is still his orb, although barely recognizable.

Solas steps in her way, going after June. This time she is the one to initiate touch. She grips him. Catches his shoulder, his wrist. But he won't be turned unless he wants to and so he just stays still, waiting for her fingers to flex, to twitch, to grant a measure of freedom.

"You can't," she says, and her voice is hoarse. She stumbles over words ."You can't," she repeats.

And then there is the deafening _why why why_ of her mind.

She feels his fingers ghost over her own as he pries them off. Her hold is iron, but he melts it.

"I am afraid we longer share secrets," Solas says. "You should stay."

It is ironic—and somewhat sad—that he closes the library door in her face right after those words.

*

Abelas is very unhappy to play navigator for her. He helps bring the horses to the eluvian, sulking all the way. He says something, but it doesn't matter. She can't make sense of much.

She grips the reins of her Courser to steady her hands.

The animals are wary of the swirling glass. Fortunately, it is large enough for them to go through without much difficulty.

Abelas is no help. He stands, arms crossed and eyes raised to the sky, as she pats mount after mount on the flank to get them going.

"You're very unhelpful," she says.

"That is a matter of debate," he says. "You're a shameless thief who takes advantage of his affections. I will not assist you."

Solas has more than enough horses and the loss of a few will not plague him, but somehow she doubts that's what Abelas means. He can't still be sore about the Dracolisk Incident.

"That is a matter of debate," she parrots back, irate.

After that they are silent. She doesn't spare him a parting glance once it's her turn to go.

A couple of men, led by Zevran, greet her. They are already shushing the animals and her mare has a difficult time trying to find a path. Warm bodies surround her and the stench of horse is overwhelming.

"Oh, hello there," says Zevran, casual. "Very noble creatures, but I'll be sticking to my Potato, thank you very much."

"You're welcome," she says. "I told you not to follow."

"But aren't you glad I didn't listen? Can you imagine herding all these alone?"

He has a point. Her face dissolves into a smile and she leans forth, resting her cheek on the side of her horse's neck. The lush mane tickles her nose as a gust of wind picks it up.

She gazes at Zevran, warmly, softly, comfort seeping into her bones at his presence.

"Yes," she says lazily, and that is all she'll give him.

His scarf shifts and all at once it is Mischief. She hasn't seen the meddling little thing in far too long.

"I'll help," the spirit announces.

Zevran frowns. "We both know you won't," he chides.

"Hi, hi, hi," Mischief singsongs.

That settles that.

They're halfway across the bridge when Zevran gasps and spurs his temporary—as he insisted—mount into a canter to get closer to her.

"Your arm—what happened to—you have an arm," he exclaims.

"I do," she says simply.

Mischief grumbles something about liking the old one better to which Zevran responds with an eye roll and an incredulous "What other?"

She's not really listening, but the expressive timbre of their voices is pleasing to the ear.

*

"What do you mean he's gone?" she says, mouth dry.

Isabela gives a nonchalant shrug. "Grabbed his staff and headed into the tunnels. That's all I know."

It's a little odd seeing her fuss over Dorian's nugs. She picks them up one by one and stuffs them into Potato's saddlebag. They just sit there, paws hanging out and ears flapping, ribbons ruffled by the breeze.

Potato snorts. He's pacified by a sugar cube and forgets about the three extra passengers.

"Be nice to Berry, Perry and Terry," Isabela says, patting him on the romp.

"That's what you named them?" Zevran calls, eyebrow quirking. He leans over a heavy bag of salvaged blacksmith tools to roll his eyes.

"They gotta have names," Isabela insists matter-of-factly. "And I couldn't leave the little buggers behind. They eat anything, right?"

"Even old shoes," Zevran confirms.

"Great," Isabela says. "Your owner is an idiot," she adds.

"Eek," the nugs say.

"Talkative too," Isabela coos.

She takes off so quickly that the end of their conversation quickly morphs into silence. She will break her neck sprinting down flights of crumbled stairs in the dark, but it doesn't matter. It just doesn't.

"Don't go after him," Zevran calls. "We don't have much time left."

He tries to follow, he does, but ultimately she is quicker and he is needed. So many people still don't believe their city will be gone by dawn and will have to be dragged out by the collar.

He understands he can't go, and Isabela stops him before he foregoes rational thinking.

Loyalty is deadly just about now. She knows too well.

*

Her wisp of light exhausts itself and fades  before she reaches the temple. And by then it isn't needed.

The torches are lit, their bases smeared with blood. The demon remains, bound and apathetic And the wall, the barrier encasing the Shadow, is as clear as water. It no longer shifts or changes consistency.

It is a thin sheet of transparent crystal. It glows.

Dorian stands with his hands at his back. His lips move as he mouths words forgotten throughout the ages. With his every breath, the barrier thaws. As if made from ice, it finally responds to the first taste of warmth in centuries.

"Dorian," she calls.

She is a little afraid to approach him.

He doesn't tear his eyes from the golden words scribbled on the gilded cage's walls.

"It is a pledge of loyalty," he says, not turning around. "I must not have read it thoroughly the last time."

"You don't need this," she says. "It nearly killed you." She comes up behind him, grazes his shoulders. Massages them.

Forget about revenge, she wants to say. It won't bring any of them back.

How cliché. He will sneer.

Those are not good words, and she doesn't know the right ones so she simply settles on rubbing his back in soothing motions.

He exudes a strange energy. He isn't even listening.

And then he opens his mouth and speaks. His Tevene is ancient. The words are easy and flow like water, an oddly beautiful lilt.

Every sound, every exhale of air, fills the room with a suffocating feeling. The torches blaze brighter; they drink the splatters of blood and it fuels their flames. The demon stirs. She wants to step back, but can't. She won't abandon him. Not now.

The Shadow floats to the forefront of the barrier, still missing its arm. It no longer imitates Dorian. It is solemn and perceptive, fixated on him but unmoving. The desperate madness which made a rabid animal out of it last time is gone; it no longer claws and howls.

It wears human form and has adopted their mannerisms. The sight is chilling.

Dorian whispers the last words and it dissolves.

It costs him everything. Suddenly his hand is crawling to his throat and he can't breathe. He rakes his nails up and down, lips going blue.

One by one, broken pieces of darkness settle along the curve of his mouth. Shadows turned tendrils of smoke that curl around his tongue and whistle past his teeth.

Dorian's back goes rigid. Slumped shoulders find a more natural posture. He rights himself and his lungs expand with a very audible, very loud _crack_.

"I—Ellana," he gasps.

She can't bring herself to touch him. He looks at her with wide and bloodshot eyes. The torchlight must be playing tricks because the thin skin around his eyes is very dark.

"Dorian?" she says.

"A nuisance," he mutters, not looking at her.

At the sound of his voice, the barrier breaks. It is water and it is ice and then it is simply nothing, absorbed into the ground.

"What is it?" she says, and wishes her lower lip wouldn't tremble so. It is already raw from all the worrying her teeth have done to it.

He shakes his head. Cracks his knuckles. Observes the arm that took on a life of its own and tried to chain Solas.

"Nothing," he says.

When he passes a torch, it snuffs out.

There is no flowing air. Not even a slight gust.

The blood in her ears becomes unbearably loud, the thrumming spreading to her temples.

Something whistles past her head, a pointed tip scraping skin off in its flight. Instinctively, her hand goes to cup her ear and encounters liquid warmth as it trickles into it.

A dull thud—the projectile shatters upon impact with the wall.

Dorian sidesteps just in time. He squints as he observes the remains at his feet. Crude work of bone and stone. An arrow heavier than most, barbaric in its design.

The thrumming lives outside of her own mind. He hears it too.

"We better make haste before more crawl out," Dorian says.

He doesn't look at her. He forgets his staff. He stops by the entrance of the temple and cocks his head, incredulous.

"Ellana?" he inquires.

The demon wails the further he walks away.

She can't bring herself to follow.


	40. I Remember Much

"Dorian?"

She says his name once, twice, three times and always he watches, head canted and eyes inquisitive. There is familiar exasperation there, she can tell. In the way his lips curl downward, as if in a frown, and his brow creases.

She knows those expressions. Could sketch them to perfection with closed eyes and the dullest charcoal stick.

But they do not feel genuine, and that is perhaps why she's dragging her feet and knows no haste in her escape of a city that will soon be but ash and memories.

"Your hands are shaking," he says as he begins cranking the wheel to the lift.

He shouldn't be smiling, but he is. Looks at his fingers, flexes them, eyes wide and fascinated.

And for a moment he can't hear her at all as he admires the synchronized coordination of his limbs. Thumb lifts and forefinger follows, and this should not be so intriguing to watch.

Mundane gesture should not enthrall one so.

There is still blood where the arrow broke her skin. Congealed, cool and reeking of iron, smearing temple and jaw. The cartilage feels torn, but she dares not touch it.

"Infernal thing," Dorian curses, glaring at the unhurried contraption. Its descent is slow and lazy.

She still can't really talk to him.

What is there to say?

He acts like Dorian. Talks like Dorian. Sneers like Dorian.

But she saw darkness tease his lips and contract his lungs until the only air he could breathe was the one the shadow offered.

The thrumming in her ears hasn't stopped. And by now it is infinitely louder. Too loud to be mere rushing of nervous blood. She can't block it out and can't pretend it's not really there.

The first arrow narrowly misses her shoulder. The second comes close to fracturing her knee.

And it is not quiet anymore.

She raises a barrier out of pure instinct, barely feeling the magic as it flees from her fingertips and into the staff, and the next arrow of sharpened bone and chiseled stone fails to puncture her cheek. The assault becomes a hailstorm and she already feels the first prickling of magic trying to break through by the time she freezes the next wave.

A dull thud as ice shatters against stone. An intake of breath. The whine of several bowstrings being pulled taut.

She braces herself.

Then she can't breathe because a strong hand grips her by the collar as one might a disobedient dog and hauls her backward. Dorian pulls her to her feet, shoves her behind him. She stumbles, feet catching on the lift's platform where it is raised above ground.

The roar of fire at her back nearly makes her hair stand. She sees the terrible flash even behind shut eyes, the scorching heat and bright colors tinted red by the fleshy barrier of eyelids.

Dorian raises a wall of flames; fiery tongues lap at the stone, scale the walls, find the agape mouths of bronze dragons and claim residence there.

It's an inferno and her lungs feel clustered.

The scent of charred flesh fills the air, but it is so much more than that. It's heated blood and ground bones; marrow and decay; decrepit leather and rotted skin. All burnt to a crisp.

And one such body, vocal cords already devoured, stumbles out of the flames. Unrecognizable, disfigured, horrible, the figure nevertheless reaches for Dorian. An exhale of air escapes its throat, a raspy sound.

Dorian takes a step forward. A single step.

His voice is an ugly hiss, powerful and loud, bouncing around the catacombs like a deranged echo.

"Prohibere," he says, and somehow it subdues the creature. "You will go no further."

It no longer tries to speak through the pain, but its mangled hand remains outstretched.

"Do not touch me," Dorian snarls.

And then something within him gives up. His control shatters. He hits the creature across the face, the sharp angles of his gauntlet cutting into lacerated skin and ripping chunks off.

Its neck snaps. It convulses. Goes still.

Dorian grimaces. He peels ribbons of scorched, flaking flesh away from his clothing.

She recognizes them then, these figures huddled in shadows behind the wall of flames. Darkspawn. Hurlocks and Shrieks and Genlocks, heads bowed as if in supplication. The raised swords come down; the arrows are returned to their quivers. They detest her but dare not go against him. His disapproval is stronger than any barrier.

At the back is an emissary and when it attempts to clear a path through the blaze, Dorian ignites a mine at its feet and casts a ward, trapping it within.

For minutes there is nothing but breathing and pained shrieks as the last of its flesh darkens.

The bones that remain are dark.

"Tu delendus es," Dorian says.

A small wisp leaves his palm. It is barely large enough to allow one to see past his nose, but it flees into the darkness all too eagerly.

He turns the back to the darkspawn, unconcerned. They still try to crawl close, but he only steps onto the platform, right next to her.

"Hold on to me, if you must," he says.   

She doesn't want but right now, in this instant, a part of her chokes on the fear that he will kick her out. Break her face with his gauntlet until she's spitting blood, reduced to no more than a warm body for the darkspawn to tear apart.

She remembers what they do to captured females and feels sick.

"Dorian?" she asks again, voice almost timid.

"Yes?" he answers.

This doesn't make it better, however it helps making it bearable because she knows the smile that lights up his face when she grips his shoulder for support.

The cable holding the counterweight snaps. The lift is jerked toward the surface.

She sits because it's a long way up and joins Dorian in gazing at what's happening below. The wisp returns, having fetched the demon now free of its bonds.

The feeble light vacillates. The massacre is a flip book. Occasional, bloody images.

Claws cut through armor and fracture ribs. Powerful jaws snap bodies in half. Dark blood drips into a puddle around the demon's feet until it is left waddling through it.

A mass grave of monsters—a fitting conclusion—but she still can't stand to look at it.

Dorian burns the second cable once they are up. The lift plummets down and she can almost hear the wet, squishy sound of ancient wood burrowing into freshly beaten bodies, crushing skulls untouched by the demon and reducing it all to a pulp.

The image lives in her imagination and will not die.

"No way but up," Dorian says.

And he is right. The catacombs of Minrathous are finished, much like Minrathous itself.

*

Supplies are stockpiled and loaded onto wagons. Spare horses are saddled.

She's never felt this exhausted, but can't sleep. It is mere hours before dawn and the moon is a mocking reminder in the sky.

Not even the sight of Potato—huffing and puffing as he wanders around while chewing on scarce grass, the three nugs with their twitching whiskers sitting comfortably in one of his saddlebags, paws hanging out and curious eyes darting left and right at every passerby—succeeds in prying a smile out of her.

The unease gnaws at her bones.

"So there's this quiet grove not far away."

Isabela sneaks up on he. Her hands find her shoulders, massaging sore muscles, and she leans down, eyebrows quirked provocatively.

She plants a kiss on her nose, upside down. Her breath is warm and heady, laced with spicy wine.

She must have raided the cellars of Minrathous all on her own.

"Mm-hm," Ellana says.

Dorian is too quiet. He helps the soldiers. He soothes the horses. He urges the people to take no more than what is necessary, citing the hardships of travel.

And she doesn't like it.

Isabela waves a hand before her face.

"Let's go?" she asks.

"Not now," Ellana answers.

Isabela huffs, stalking away. "Fine."

"Don't steal any of my horses," Ellana calls after her.

No response means no promises.

She sits cross-legged in the grass with a surviving map of Tevinter spread in front of her. Minrathous is a long way from Qarinus by foot. If they had a ship, the voyage would be much quicker. But they have barely anything.

Then again she doesn't exactly want to sail around Seheron and risk an encounter with a dreadnought, if those are still around. They don't have nearly enough mages to oppose a floating fortress—no thank you.

Cullen cleared the way through strategy and brute force. Josephine secured passage with flowery prose and vague promises. Leliana sent pretty birds to peck out the eyes of those who stared and wished ill will. But she has nothing. No Cullen, no Josephine, no Leliana. No army and no nobles groveling for the Inquisition's favor and certainly no spy network.

And she feels terribly small, a figurehead of a once mighty organization all thanks to a glowing palm and not-so-divine providence.

It's all very pathetic.

She is so tired. She needs to sleep but she can't. Not until they're safely away.

She is going to fall over, and that will be that.

Dorian stirring is what puts her on edge. He leans against a tree and just stares into the forest. Maybe he's smiling. Maybe she's imagining things.

She hasn't told anyone about what happened in the catacombs and so if he must be by someone's side, then best it be hers.

She doubts she can subdue him if he decides to lash out.

She doubt she can subdue anything anymore, but she can try keeping him occupied.

If he is still Dorian.

Her heart sinks deeper into her stomach, and she can't recall the last time she had a morsel to eat. Her mouth waters.

The map of Tevinter is nearly stolen by the breeze as she gets up, and she traps it with a rock.

"Look who has come to pay a visit," Dorian says, nodding into the darkness.

The outline is barely visible against the backdrop of the forest, but she still sees a small group of men. Sentinels, marching in a formation. Solas is on a hart and Abelas on his favored dracolisk, and she can't deny they look quite regal, side by side in their armor of ancient elvhen design.

The artifacts begin to hum. She feels their magic spread.

"Stop," she says, hand reaching out to grasp Dorian's sleeve but it slides between her fingers like water.

He is already bolting, already walking out to meet them, and from the corner of her eye she sees Zevran and Isabela, raising their heads to watch.

Everyone watches, truly.

She follows, because how can she not?

Solas dismounts first. He walks to her side and simply looks down at her, head tilted.

But she has nothing to say. She doesn't want Minrathous spared anymore. Whatever still dwells beneath must never see the light of day.

He sighs.

"It's not morning yet," she says.

"It does not matter," he says.

He touches her shoulder. He looks pained.

"You are being foolish," he says, "and too prideful. You gain nothing from leaving."

"And what will I gain by staying?" she asks. "No, what will these people gain? What will the humans gain?"

"I will not harm innocents," he says.

He expected them to die when he tore down the Veil. He spoke the admission, his lips shaped the words. He couldn't have forgotten.

"You already have," she says, and shrugs his hand off.

And it hurts because he sounds like the person he used to be; the man who quietly suggested they go hunt some rams for cold refugees rather than rush to their immediate goal.

But he only strides past her and activates the artifacts. Thin wisps of magic spring forth from the spheres, entwining like lovers, floating and crawling and slowly encasing Minrathous in its death shroud.

The field pushes people away. They stumble. They are afraid. They scramble and lead spooked horses away from the pulsating, barely perceptible prison.

The grass past the barrier is the first to go. It burns. And then the bridge fractures all over. Hairline cracks that begin along weak stones and soon spread to brass statues and the city gates.

It is painstakingly slow, almost too quiet, but altogether horrifying. It's like watching the sea swallow the city; wide open jaws of an invisible beast struggling to fit a carcass down its throat and so crushing, crushing, always crushing it until it is but bone and powder.

This is nothing like Antiva.

Antiva fell like a house of cards; a weak construction crumbling after but one slight push. _This_ creates the impression of suffocation. Smothering.

It will take hours, Solas tells her, but her mind barely registers his voice.

"That is a rather large escort."

Dorian joins her. His arms are crossed and he feigns nonchalance.

It takes Solas but one look, only one, and then he is no longer touching her. He is stepping back and Abelas is there within a heartbeat. June is too.

She's not even surprised to see the three of them together.

He is looking at her and his expression is a cross between disbelief and rage. His eyes dart between her and Dorian, softening and hardening so very quickly.

"You were nothing," Solas says. "A piece of a soul silenced and restrained."

"Cut off one head and another will grow," Dorian says, and he sounds wholly unconcerned. He even rolls his shoulders and scratches his jaw.

"You kind is repulsive to me," he continues. " Haughty and entitled and proud." He closes the distance between them, arm outstretched to push her behind him as he did in the catacombs.

He surveys the three men.

A lazy glance at Abelas. "A shadow of one once noble."

A punctuated look at June. "A madman with a voice that is not his own inside his head."

But Solas' stare he holds. He levels it. Matches his animosity. "Pride," Dorian snarls. "I remember your pretty sister, clad in arrogance and armed with arrows that were just not sharp enough. She came to us and left without her mind. What a poor huntress."

"You are nothing," Solas repeats, "and you are falling apart."

At that, Dorian looks down at the hand he used to strike the darkspawn with. Slowly, he pulls off his glove. Beneath the leather, his skin is pale and the veins are dark. The small finger is completely black, blood supply cut off for a reason or another.

He winces.

He sighs.

With a sharp jerk, he tears off the shriveled digit, tendons and bone and sinew breaking off like dry wood. He drops it at his feet, watching it ooze black liquid.

Fresh blood—live blood—flows freely from the wound and the sight brings a smile to his lips. He uses the rough fabric of the glove to soak it all up.

And she is going to be sick.

"Not for a while," Dorian says. "I have time. The taint has spread no further."

Solas is no longer looking at him. His gaze is on her and he looks desperate.

"Vhenan," he says, voice steady—too steady to be natural, "come here."

She is astonished at how much she almost wants to. He's done horrible things, but he is familiar. Predictable, to an extent. Because anything would be better than this.

This is not Dorian.

This is not him. It can't be.

She takes a cautious step forward, but Dorian—whoever this is—stops her. The wounded hand lands on her clavicle; she feels the blood, hot and sticky, pour past her cotton shirt, between her breasts.

He looks at her with too much care. He smiles and it is sincere.

But when he talks, the words aren't meant for her.

"She is a friend," he says calmly, eyes roaming her features. "I remember the nights spent drinking and laughing. I remember the quips and jests. I remember everything." His expression shifts into something unbearably  affectionate. "You dislike bears. I remember that too."

His nose wrinkles and he frowns in a fashion that is so very Dorian when he rounds on Solas again. He waggles a fingers, and it would be such a normal gesture if not for blood trickling down his wrist.

He's released her, but she can't move. Or doesn't want to. It's hard to tell.

"You are terribly dull and I hate you," he says and then he looks confused, because this is not something an ancient deity would say.

But she laughs nonetheless.

If she doesn't then she will lose her mind, and sounding hysterical is a better alternative.

Her sanity must be slipping.

 _This_ is Dorian. Somehow he is leaking through. It is still his body and mind, even if he is missing a finger.

"Do not use her as a shield," Solas warns. "I will crush you. You no longer belong to this world. You are done, locked away by your own people and freed by happenstance. Nothing but a flicker of former glory and power."

"In that regard, we are much the same," Dorian drawls.

"We are nothing alike." Solas looks ready to lash out. She knows that pallor, the tight set of his jaw. The ground would be coming apart if he so desired. "I freed my people from slavery while you turned yours into monsters."

"Unruly children must be taught a lesson," Dorian says, disinterested. "They seek forgiveness still. I know devotion to this day. Same cannot be said of you."

He looks like he wants to say more. He opens his mouth. He looks at her with tenderness.

"My people remain," he begins, "and you will not touch them—"

"Enough," says Solas and immediately a barrier springs in place around him. He cuts him off with a single gesture, silencing him for good.

He tries reaching for her again and, just as calmly as before, Dorian steps in his way. Abelas catches Solas by the wrist. He shakes his head. Only once. Somehow it is enough to pacify him.

"Rot," Solas says, lips curling in a snarl. "It is but a matter of time. A soul is not forced upon the unwilling."

The last words aren't his. They belong to Flemeth, to Mythal, and she can almost hear her gravelly tone behind Solas' fluid one.

He orders his Sentinels to march.

June turns away from Dorian, fingers at his temples.

Abelas all but flees.

She feels intrepid fingers twine with hers. A palm wet with blood presses to her own. Dorian holds her hand and smiles.

She doesn't say anything.

She watches the stormy waters engulf Minrathous and he stays at her side, as faithful as any guard dog.

*

She doesn't think she'll be able to sleep, but the instant her head touches the semblance of a pillow—a sack of flour—she is out like a log.

And Solas is there. He doesn't twist the Fade for her comfort, or his for that matter. It is dark and swirling and it's more than a little unsettling to be in the middle of nothing.

She is standing, but then she isn't and his mouth is on hers, hot and needy and rough. He pulls her into him, wraps his arms around her until they're but a different kind of prison.

She feels his ribs as they press against hers. He is too thin.

"What have you done," he asks, and she can't count the number of times it is repeated.

His face pressed to her shoulder. His lips on her neck. She almost can't breathe, and it seems he has forgotten that she shattered a crystal pitcher against his face and told him never to touch her again. Or perhaps he does not want to remember.

He tastes like nothing. He doesn't taste like Solas.

She thinks she misses it. This, this was always good. She never regretted his kisses. It's not a question of consent that makes her put a hand to his chest, but of dubious morality. She should be better than this. But Solas isn't all dark and she isn't all white. His shades of gray are deeper. It's about who she wants to be and not who he is.

Slowly, very slowly, he disentangles himself from her. He looks as though he's fighting for clarity.

He takes her hands and says, "Ir abelas."

"Don't," she says.

"I cannot help him and you must run," he says. He pleads.

She wants to forget just like he did. She wants to forget everything and touch his face to wipe away that horrible frown.

But he is wrong and Dorian is still with her, in one capacity or another.

*

She wakes to someone shaking her rather roughly. At first, she has half a mind to elbow the person right in the face—perhaps their nose will explode in a very satisfying fountain of blood—but then her mind focuses and the fog around her head lifts.

Zevran kneels at her side, hands unsteady from excitement.

He grips a crumpled parchment.

"Leliana sent word," he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevene is basically latin, or a stylized version of it, and so that is what I used.
> 
> Prohibere—basically translates as 'stop.'  
> Tu delendus es—roughly translates as 'you must be destroyed.'


	41. Shifting Loyalties

Leliana is in Orzammar.

The announcement floors her like a tidal wave. The parchment is dry and shredded at the edges, the ink flaking off; the missive has been through much.

Leliana's faithful raven sits perched on Zevran's shoulder, feathers ruffled and eyes no more than emotionless glass beads. She has time to think; the bird needs rest. Not a lot, but still.

"I suppose we ought to let Magister Pavus know," Zevran says, pensive."This changes everything, of course."

His arm begins to rise to wave Dorian over, but she catches his wrist with violent urgency. Her teeth draw blood where they close on the inside of her cheek. She tastes iron.

And she has seen too much blood in too short a while.

The image of Dorian ripping off his own finger like a child might ravage an innocent twig, still flashes behind her eyes. She is going to be sick if she thinks of it again.

"Let him rest," she says, carefully releasing Zevran's wrist.

Finger after finger is pried off and she winces upon discovering the bruises now marring his skin. It is so difficult to feel with this new arm. Everything is muted. Distant. She can't injure herself below the elbow no matter how ardently she tries, but others aren't spared.

If Zevran picks up on something, he certainly doesn't show it.

She stares at his tattoos for too long, remembering—mourning—her own.

"He's not resting," Zevran says, eyebrow quirked. He isn't smiling.

No, he's not. He's making rounds, walking alongside horses and patting them on their flanks. Flashes smiles at men and women alike.

He is too carefree.

"Let him rest," she repeats.

"We are going to Orzammar," Zevran says. He catches her shoulder when she turns. He makes her face him and as she is brought before him once again, he finds enough time to put on a grimace.

His loyalties are to Leliana.

She almost forgot.

She wants to forget still.

"I don't know," she says. "We must reach Qarinus."

"No," he says, "we must reach _Orzammar_. Regroup with Leliana."

He looks older then, like a Blight veteran ought. His thick veneer of joyful insouciance fades away just long enough for her to see past it. He is tired. Just like she is, if not more. Like they all are. He is very close to dispensing with courtesies, and she can't blame him. He's done so much—for her and got nothing in return—but she must ask him for more still.

"We have allies in Qarinus," she says, tongue awkward and heavy.

"Name three," Zevran says, "because I guarantee that by the time we reach her, Leliana will have that number multiplied tenfold and these people will be useless to our cause. The entirety of the dwarven kingdom will be dancing to her tune before we even get there."

It isn't a far-fetched theory. Leliana could certainly accomplish that and more.

But that's not the point.

 _Our cause?_ What cause is that exactly? All they have to do is stop antagonizing Solas now that they have no proper army to speak of, and he'll leave them alone. It is not easy, but it is that simple. That pitiful.

As long as they aren't a threat to his not-quite-restored and less-than-immaculate Elvhenan, he will not budge from his certainly-not-a-throne.

She will not chase war with them, if such is their choice. She just won't.

They refuse to swallow their pride when it's the unfortunate but right choice.

Perhaps in time it can all be different. Perhaps. They have to be content with this vague promise of eventuality, but of course it won't suffice and she can't stop them.

"Feynriel, Maevaris and Vivienne," she says. "There. And we have refugees to think of."

"Send the soldiers with the survivors to Qarinus. Easier for them, easier for us." Zevran makes a display out of counting fingers. "A mage apprentice, or something of the sort." The index goes down. "A poisoned magister." A second finger is lowered. "And a cutthroat opportunist. Oh yes, everyone has heard of Madame de Fer."

"Well, yes," she says somewhat stupidly.

She is made an idiot and her plan a mess when he puts it like that.

"Forgive my lack of faith," Zevran says, and now his smile is really and truly gone. Vanished as though it never existed. Not even the laughing lines by his mouth remain, so severe his frown runs. "But I fear that isn't the most promising bunch."

"Qarinus is safe," she says.

"Sure it is."

"It is," she insists. But she doesn't really know, does she? Qarinus was always the endgame. Where the story ended. There wasn't supposed to be anything in the after except for quiet. "You've followed Cousland to worst places than another Tevinter city. What's the problem?"

And she regrets the words the instant they are out.

Zevran goes white. His hand balls into a fist, and she has done it. She's finally done it. This is how she loses everyone—with ill-thought, stupid words and an unhealthy dose of arrogance.

She never used to be this surly before. How short her temper's wick has become; first inches and then yards chopped off with the sharp sword of circumstance.

"I'm sorry," she begins to say, "I'm so sorry, Zevran. I'm sorry—" But she fumbles. Her words are clumsy. She can't piece anything together worth saying, and there is a terrible ache in her chest.

He gives a dismissive shake of his head. His face is so twisted. It would have been better had she stabbed herself in the gut. She absolutely deserves it.

"You are not Cousland, Inquisitor," Zevran says.

Hit me, she thinks. He should just punch her. Right now, right in the jaw. So the bruise is fresh and painful and blooming.

She wishes he'd called her Ellana instead.

"We will talk later," he says, gathering the crumpled map of Thedas where both Qarinus and Orzammar have been furiously circled with charcoal.

The pads of her fingers come back stained as she numbly allows him to take it.

"Wynne is still unwell," he says, and the accusation is right there, he doesn't need to voice it. _In case you've forgotten._

But she hasn't. She thinks of them all and then she wishes there was a way to stop. To become as apathetic as Solas can be. When he refuses to feel, he gets things done while she is constantly anchored in place by regret.

*

When they make camp for the night, she catches Isabela saddling one of the lighter horses. A young, swift Courser that constantly paws at the earth with its hoof.

"Hello there," she says, putting her new hand on the reins. If Isabela decides to bolt right now, she'll easily overpower her. The animal will listen to the stronger of the two.

"Oh, hi to you too," Isabela returns.

She leans it and touches her lips to Ellana's cheek. She is soft despite not being close, and for a second Ellana wants to tilt her head just so and angle her mouth so it meets hers as they've done several times in passing, but quickly remembers herself.

She makes quite a sorry and miserable sight, starved for gentle touch of any kind like some sort of stray. Her cheek tingles long after Isabela's pulled away.

"Where are you headed, stranger?" she asks.

Her free fingers travel up Isabela's side to tug at the poorly concealed leather strap holding her favorite weathered dagger sheaths. The blades within reflect just a hint of moonlight before fading into darkness, as her hips shift and she steps back into the shadow of her horse.

"Here and there, lovely," Isabela says, twirling a lock of wild raven hair around her finger.

"Does the here and there happen to be in Orzammar?"

"I like seeing you like this," Isabela purrs. "Playful." She winks. "It suits you."

Yes, and Solas likes to see her smile. She knows this game.

"Right," Ellana says. "So, Orzammar?"

"Orzammar," Isabella confirms, shrugging, and now she's swinging herself onto the horse. "After stopping by Kirkwall, of course."

Never the matter that the two are separated by the Waking Sea. That's not an issue, apparently.

"And whatever have you forgotten in Kirkwall?" she asks

Isabela wrinkles her nose. "There's a decent tavern there, I'll have you know. I have priorities."

She rolls her shoulder. Smiles wickedly. Waits for only a second to pass. "And a brothel."

"Both very enticing destinations—"

"Mhmm."

"—but what did I say about stealing my horses?"

Isabela doesn't really care. She will flash a smile and leave anyway. Ellana knows it all too well, and there is just a twinge of anger bubbling underneath her skin. At Zevran and Dorian. At all of them. They owe her nothing, and she doesn't really know why she's still expecting something, but this utter nonsense is making her irrationally resentful.

"Technically, they're not yours," Isabela says. "Chin up, lovely, I'll return eventually."

Her mouth is a thin line. "No you won't," she says, bitter.

_And you might get yourself killed._

That, she doesn't want to say out loud. Dalish superstitions run deep despite her being no better than a flat-ear at this point, and she doesn't want to risk infusing the words with possibility by giving them life through voice.

So she knocks on wood. Three times. A reassuring number.

Thankfully, there are a lot of trees.

Isabela laughs; a throaty, pleasant sound that travels into her stomach and then her toes. She wiggles them in her worn boots, the soles so thin that mud seeps through with every step.

"Have some faith in me, will you," she says, leaning forth until her cheek brushes the horse's mane. Her eyes are black ice, devilish and narrowed and no longer amber in the absence of light. She licks her lips. "I'll come back with good new and then we'll celebrate."

Her stomach shouldn't drop at the inherently _good_ notion of _good_ news.

She swallows thickly.

"Spare the horse," she says.

Isabela spurs the animal into a gentle canter. Her silhouette slowly becomes one with the night.

She tries so hard not to glare at Zevran—and Dorian, but that's a given—when she shuffles back to camp, but fails. Her hardened gaze is shifted to the ground to avoid confrontation and she wouldn't be surprised if it were to crack open beneath her feet.

Isabela didn't leave on her own volition. Or out of pure altruism, for that matter.

Zevran didn't go against her. She knows that. She just wishes they weren't divided.

His loyalties aren't to her. She repeats it again and again. Mulls the words over. Leliana is a shadowy power in her own right; she was always one of the puppeteers behind the Inquisition, beloved but pulling strings nonetheless.

She doesn't know how any of this will end and she is scared.

*

Solas isn't exactly angry.

She doesn't know what he is.

He's not grabbing her, not pulling her toward him, not slanting his mouth over hers. He's not giving great speeches and the Fade isn't a dull nothingness.

Bits and pieces of their various encounters, and it's dizzying.

They are in his study and he is in his plush chair. It's almost sad— _almost_ —how this is the place he chooses to go in dreams.

"Here is how we will proceed," he says.

"Why are you trying to restore your orb?" she says.

"Because it is mine." His answer comes too quick and it is detached, too simple. Of course, of course. Silly Ellana and her silly questions. He looks at her and his head is tilted. "And because lowering the Veil cost me much," he admits. When his gaze slides right past her she knows those words to possess at least a sliver of truth.

She trails her fingers along the edge of his desk. She doesn't want to sit.

It's stupidly empowering to be standing in his presence. For once, he doesn't tower. He must look up while she looks down.

He is tired and worried despite his calm facade and she is lonely. Somehow, they fit and she isn't sure what to make of it.

"Now then," Solas says. "I will offer your people—do not frown just yet—safe lands and peace. All of them, Ellana."

"In exchange for what?" she asks only because she is curious. She's not even tempted to consider it.

"Dorian," he says.

He's not getting Dorian, no matter his state. But knowledge is power, however cliché the statement, and so she baits him.

"You don't want to be near Dorian," she points out, arms crossed.

And he crosses his own in return, mirroring her. "I do not have to be near to put him back in chains," he says.

Now he is staring. His gaze holds hers until she's forced to blink. She wants to sit and drum her fingers over her thigh. She wants the terrible tension to flee from her shoulders.

"I love you very much," Solas' voice shatters the silence, and it is almost too soft. She doesn't need this sincerity. Not now. "I do not want to fight you, but this folly has gone on long enough. This is not how you hurt me, vhenan, this is how you hurt everyone."

She bristles. And then she splinters. And finally she is just cold because he is right.

She does sit then, head bowed.

"What are you so afraid of?" she whispers. "A soul is not forced upon the unwilling. You've said so yourself." Flemeth did. Mythal did. Two women so ancient couldn't have been wrong.

"But I was not unwilling," he says.

The silence hangs thick and heavy, a true curtain of lead between them as his hand reaches over to cover hers. She is too numb to remember to pull away.

He cuts her off with a curt nod when the obvious question threatens to spill from her lips.

"It was a long time ago," Solas says, gaze distant. "I will not speak of it."

He stands then, and the last second of his touch might as well not have happened. She doesn't feel it.

"You are not getting Dorian," she mumbles. She should probably scream or growl it, but she can't. "You'll have to get through me first."

Because he's still Dorian. He is.

Perhaps he is forced to share his body and mind, but he is still inside. She can hear him when he talks, when his dialect slips and his accent grows thicker. When he blasphemes. When he doesn't talk in riddles.

Perhaps that is why she hasn't told the truth to the others yet.

She doesn't know what she expects, but it is not utter silence.

Solas looks almost sympathetic.

He pities her, she realizes, and it leaves her with a sour taste in her mouth. This is how he looks at her when he calls her small.

"Qarinus is very far away," he says.

The edges of her vision blur and he pushes her out of the Fade before her next breath.

*

It's not yet dawn when she wakes gasping. The fire no longer crackles, the only heat coming from the dying embers and her hole-ridden woolen blanket that smells terribly of horse.

Her first thought is for Dorian, but she can't find him. Instead, her eyes land on Zevran.

He's not sleeping despite being spared watch duty. He sits with his back to a tree and a half-empty wine bottle in his lap.

He doesn't look up when she approaches, feet dragging and eyes ashamed, but the corner of his lips rides up.

"Have you reconsidered our travel itinerary?" he asks.

"I don't know," she says. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Panic has wedged itself into her heart; of course Solas knows—he knows all. But for now, she still has until sunrise. Her little secrets don't have to go out into the world just yet."Does it matter right now? It's so early. You've already sent Isabela ahead."

"So I have," he agrees, smiling mirthlessly.

He hands her the bottle and she finds a spot on the grass next to him. His body heat is almost too enticing.

"I found it but haven't had a drop," Zevran murmurs. "Must be losing my touch."

She stares at the swirling liquid. It must be red but there is barely any light and so it is like tar, dark and ominous. Her throat feels parched.

"I think I've lost my best friend," she whispers. "Or I might very soon."

A heartbeat passes. Then a second.

Zevran uncorks the bottle.

His arm goes over her shoulders, palm rubbing her upper arm.

"I know the feeling," he says.


	42. Alone Again

"Do you have a headache?" Dorian asks.

She narrows her eyes at him. "No."

He follows her like a besotted hound. " What is it then? I can help."

This is not right. Dorian was never a healer.

Just when she thinks she sees his true face past the cracks, the mask grows thicker and he is a stranger once more.

"A pain perhaps?" he tries again.

" _You're giving me a migraine_." She can't help herself. She hisses at him. Her guard is nonexistent,  her caution gone.

He speaks of power and things of the past and, on the same breath, calls her friend. It's disorienting. Confusing.

He will make a face that is so typically _Dorian_ when forced to drink diluted tea. His nose will wrinkle and he'll sigh a long, exaggerated 'ew.' And then he will talk of dormant souls.

A chimera of two people, just like Mythal and Flemeth were.

The thought makes her nauseous and she tries every distraction at hand whenever it crawls to the forefront of her mind.

Dorian briefly wanders off and once again makes a distasteful grimace, this time directed at the fish porridge all are having.

"I don't much care for fish," he says, eyes crinkling just as his lips turn down.

"Too fucking bad," she calls from across the camp, "you're having fish like everyone else."

When has she become the resident grouch? She can't even remember the change taking place. It's as if she's been bitter her entire life; there have been lighter, happier moments and they are so very blurry and hard to recall now.

"Years past, feasts you cannot imagine were thrown in honor—"

"You're having fish," she cuts him off.

She can't listen to this madness. She can't. It's eating its way into her brain and soon there will be nothing left. She can't be constantly reminded that Dorian isn't alone in there and that it's her fault, always hers.

Not quick enough. Not smart enough. She is just _not enough_.

When the throbbing behind her eyes actually turns into a migraine, she catches him by the sleeve.

"What is your name?" she asks.

"What an odd question,"  Dorian drawls. He has his arm bent at the elbow with the opposite hand resting in the nook.

He used to be like this whenever they played—cheated—for money, always losing all their savings and more.

 _I finally understand  why you walk around half-naked_ , _you Tevinter tart_ , she told him once.

 _How distasteful_ , he commented with a great eye roll, _and close-minded for one whose people also frolic naked in the moonlight._

It is a physical ache, this yearning for their shared past.

Ellana shakes her head.

"How about you answer it?" she suggests.

"You know my name," Dorian says.

"I don't think I do," she counters.

Dorian's gaze wanders and he is back at glaring at the fish porridge. Too casual. Too at ease. Too distressing.

"Fen'Harel and his kin called me Anaris once," he says without true emotion, "but it was a very long time ago. It does not matter anymore."

She should feel something, she thinks. Relief or perhaps dread. But there is only emptiness. The name means nothing. Vowels and consonants sewn together to create a simple sound, brief and vaguely elven.

This is not the name of an Old God.

Then again, an Old God would have probably proclaimed doom upon all the world, much like Corypheus, following her shouted suggestion to just deal with the fish porridge.

"Anaris," she says, trying it on for size. It's not awkward or pretentious; it is simple and short.

If Solas remembers him then so should the Dalish, but her mind is blank.

He is right. She was never a good student of history.

Anaris does not respond. His attention span has been exhausted, or perhaps he's ignoring her.

"Anaris," she tries again.

Utter silence.

"Dorian," she says and she never thought her friend's name could roll so clumsily off her tongue.

Her perks up. A sweet smile blossoms on his lips. "Hmm?" he says, playful eyes seeking out hers.

It's like watching one come out of a trance. Her mouth is so dry that it is hard to swallow, and suddenly she's very glad she had the presence of mind to pull him away from the rest of the group. She doesn't want him near any of them.

She has the urge to jab her finger right in his chest, but aborts the desire.

He acts devoted now, but for how long?

"You are not Dorian," she says. Her voice wavers; there is no sharp edge to it, no strength.

He frowns as if she just turned his entire world upside down. He tries reading past her features but encounters no malice or lie. And then he is confused.

"It matters not who I am," Anaris—Dorian—whoever this is murmurs, still looking rather unsure, "only what."

Her migraine escalates a notch. It's not that this isn't making any sense—it's so past that territory that there is no word to describe it. She must make a face because he tilts his head to observe her better.

So she only repeats, "You are not Dorian," and hopes it will be enough for him to provide a true explanation.

"But I am," he argues. Then adds, "Now."

"You're not," she fires back.

"I am," he says.

That goes on for a while.

She's not even certain how much time this disturbing argument of theirs consumes—who would have thought she'd be having _this_ debate one day—but eventually she's shushing him, hands waving violently.

"Do you want us to find you a dragon?" she asks.

In the distance, Zevran's head snaps in their direction. His eyebrows are in a severe V. She forces her voice to slip into a different register.

She feels light-headed. What is she even suggesting.

Dorian—she can't think of him otherwise, she just can't—looks at her as though she just kicked sanity to the curb. One of his hands crawls to his throat as if to suppress a tearing scream.

" _Why?"_ he asks. He hesitates. His expression softens. "No," he says, head shaking. "No, it won't be necessary. We did that before because it was easier not to feel, but I don't want to go back to that. No. I like how I am. Who I am."

He leaves her, looking very distraught. As if he has the right to. As if he isn't some ancient parasite who stole her friend's body and has gorged himself on Dorian's memories, confusing them with his own.

She lets him go. Watches him slip through her fingers, too afraid to reach for his sleeve a second time.

*

She waits for a confrontation. Manipulation. Soft words, perhaps.

None come and Solas is silent.

There are no ambushes, but she still sends riders ahead at every turn. So much that whispers of her being paranoid are shared around the campfire at night.

When that happens, she burrows beneath her favored woolen blanket and tucks herself at Zevran's side. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. But it does.

And when the first glimpse of Qarinus appears on the horizon, Zevran gives a small nod to bid her to fall in step with him. He wears a grim expression and his mouth is a tight line.

She is lighter; for once, softer. She thinks she might even be smiling. The tug of her lips feels unnatural; it's been so long since she smiled with sincerity.

She needs a dagger that is sharp rather than blunt from fighting to take to her hair. Like a good flat-ear, she craves a bed even if stuffed with mere straw. And water. Water that does not chill bone to wash all this grime off with leisure.

"Stop," Zevran says. He extends his arm to grab the reins of her horse.

Huffing, the animal relents and comes to stand abreast with his own.

"What's wrong?" she asks. She doesn't want this semblance of a smile to flee just yet.

"Look at the walls," Zevran says. "Untouched. The mortar is fresh. The stone polished with care rather than time." And now he is frowning, his brow creased. "They've had it very easy, don't you think? Even found time for  repairs. Rather odd, wouldn't you say, for a city housing Fen'Harel's enemies—your allies."

He tells her to send scouts to make inquiries.

And so she does. Three mercenaries—who by now have grown tired of her leadership because they were always Dorian's men, not even the Inquisition's—go ahead and the gates part for them easily. Invitingly.

She sits in the grass, legs crossed, and watches her men receive a warm welcome. Their horses are wiped down. They are handed overflowing canteens.

Zevran is right. This prosperity is unsettling.

She bites her nail beds raw.

Their men do not come back. A lone rider leaves the city and makes his way toward them, a little awkward in the saddle, lean legs struggling to hug the horse.

Zevran is first to stir. He's got hands on both of his daggers; Dorian observes from a distance, squinting; she wrings her hands furiously. Everyone is sick and tired of traveling. They want to be behind tall, safe walls and glares come from all directions—she's the villain whose word is holding them back.

The rider dismounts, quiet and fidgety.

He smiles. She doesn't know why at first and just frowns in return, but recognition suddenly paints a familiar face. A fine nose and a pale plait braid, giving way to features too delicate for a human.

He is stilted. Clumsy. He looks at Dorian more than he does at her, but she is closer and very stiffly his hand reaches for her shoulder when she approaches.

"Inquisitor," he says.

"Feynriel," she says.

There is something wrong with him, she thinks. He moves unnaturally, as if unused to the rich clothes he's been put into. When her touch slides down his arm, she feels steel beneath a thick layer of velveteen.

She steps back.

"You must be exhausted," he says.

She swallows her anxiety. "Utterly," she admits. "Even our horses are foaming at the mouths."

Dorian is far enough that he needs to raise his voice, but when he does speak his words slash through the silence. "Feynriel," he says, arms crossed, "my friend, why are there archers on the walls?"

Her eyes shoot up, barely fast enough to catch sight of shifting shadows along the ramparts. So small. So subtle. Almost a trick of light.

It's enough to bring her staff between them.

"You are welcome into the city," Feynriel is quick to reassure, a little desperate in his hastiness. "All of you."

"All of us?" she repeats.

He breaks eye contact. "Except Magister Pavus. We cannot grant him entry."

She sees it then, when he shifts his weight from one foot the other. As his fingers flex and relax. Patterns engraved into the visible metal of his fine light armor, the velveteen riding up to reveal them.

For the second time, she backs away, nearly colliding with Zevran whose arms come up to steady her.

"They're with Solas," she says, mouth impossibly dry.

She wants to scream. And cry. And scream some more.

And Feynriel is saying, "Wait, please wait. All those people—what will happen to them?"

Except that it's no longer up to her, or Dorian, or even Zevran. They, the self-designated leaders of their little group, no longer have a say in the matter. Not even the mages recruited by Dorian—the Mortalitasi and Necromancers she is so unsettled by—remain.

One of them goes to Feynriel. Asks, "You are willing to take us in?"

Feynriel is nodding, too eagerly, too quickly. "There should be no more fighting. We must unite," he says.

She can only watch, mute.

"Wynne," Zevran murmurs.

She stops him. "Let her," she says. "We can't help her. Maybe they can."

They all leave. The healthy and wounded and those who, with time, could have become friends.

*

She refuses to enter Qarinus.

She thinks of Vivienne and her stomach becomes a stone; her blood burns her veins, too hot from all the pent-up rage.

Vivienne was with them before the Veil fell. She assisted Dorian with the barrier that saved so many as the sky burned around them.  She was wary of Solas from the very beginning.

Ellana doesn't even notice her hand is shaking until Zevran grips it. He looks at her with wide, concerned eyes.

"Orzammar, then?" he asks, trying so hard to fake a smile and failing.

Bless him. Bless him for not asking questions just yet. For not prying information out of her.

She can't speak of Dorian. Cannot think of him without splintering. But she will not leave him.

"Yes, Orzammar," she whispers.

She lowers her face into her hands and laughs.

How are they supposed to make such a trip? They have nothing. Less than nothing.

She feels light-headed.

She is tired of fighting for a cause that bears no name.

It happens slowly. At first, Feynriel returns with supplies—and too many men. They're but three, they do not need much, but he is accompanied by a veritable entourage.

"Please," Feynriel says, trying to offer her food, "you cannot stay out here."

"We'll leave in the morning," she says, numb. "It's fine. Don't concern yourself with us."

"I can't," he says.

She frowns.

He frowns back.

He averts his eyes, ashamed.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and then his men are raising their arms.

Swords and daggers and bows. A perfect circle formation of solid, armored bodies.  There is an arrow so close to her chest that if it were to be set loose, she'd be skewered.

Zevran swears in Antivan. Dorian grips one man by the gauntlet and does not let go, does not release him until he is shrieking and sinking to his knees. The metal melts, dripping onto the skin beneath until it is raw and useless. Only then does he release him, once the man is short one limb and panting in agony.

 Feynriel steps in front of him and a flicker of emotion crosses Dorian's face. He looks hesitant. His hand lowers. He doesn't want to hurt him.

"We are to hold you," Feynriel says, hesitant. "Do not fight us."

Zevran scoffs. "Hold us?" he repeats. "For your new master, yes? How resourceful and patient, he is. Waited until we were without reinforcements. Tell me, do you feel like a big boy?"

Feynriel mumbles something inaudible. She doesn't even care.

She should be afraid. Her heart should be threatening to shatter her rib cage.

It takes all of her to dig through one of her myriad pouches to retrieve the poison so painstakingly acquired from Solas.

"Give this to Magister Tilani," she sighs. "Make her well again."

"Oh, but she is all right." Feynriel takes the vial anyway. "Fen'Harel helped her."

"Fen'Harel poisoned her in the first place," she points out.

And after that all is silent.

It takes hours. Zevran has taken to pacing, clattering his daggers against the outstretched swords like some sort of commander. It's ironic. Almost funny. Almost. Her knees are wobbly; how her body remains in an upright position is a mystery that will never be solved.

She doesn't speak with Feynriel. She doesn't ask him about Vivienne, why she isn't coming out.

There is nothing to say.

It happens suddenly. At first, Dorian merely hums. Then he mutters in that dialect none of them understand, not even the real Dorian. An archaic form of Tevene.

He shakes his head.

"I will not stay here," he says.

The mages allied with Feynriel are almost enough to subdue him—almost. Until they're not and he abandons his pretense and refuses to play their games. Dorian shatters their barriers. He casts—a flurry of spells that are too loud, too quick, too powerful. She flattens to the ground when a bolt of lightning sizzles past her cheek, chopping off a thick strand of hair, coming so close to her still-injured ear.

Some of Feynriel's men must be Templars. Just a few. Not enough to make a difference and destabilize Dorian—but more than enough to make an invalid out of her. The Annulment spell snuffs out whatever was simmering in her palm. Her staff is reduced to a useless piece of dragonbone, fighting so hard to come alive with _anything at all_ but finding itself thwarted at every turn.

It's an uproar then.

Zevran—she doesn't see Zevran—but then she does and he is too far away. Right behind Dorian who is already shushing a horse.

He tries to come back for her. His dagger plunges in the soft spot beneath a man's breastplate and crawls its way toward his spine. When he yanks it out, the front of his tunic is dripping with blood.

"Ellana," he says. She can't hear him. She has to read it on his lips.

"Get Dorian out," she screams back.

He breaks. He nods just once.

 _Orzammar_ , he mouths.  A secret. A lone breath. Something just for her.

 _Orzammar_ , she mouths back and it's enough for him.

He pulls up behind Dorian. The horse is already spooked. It takes off within a second, fleeing into the night.

She stops fighting then. For finality's sake she delivers a crushing blow to the face of a remaining Templar, effectively breaking his nose.

It offers little satisfaction and so she waits, watching the injured and dead.

Feynriel tries tending to her bloody lip, but she bats his hand away.

"He will not hurt you," he says, trying to sound reassuring. "Magister Pavus was wrong. He—"

"He burned the world, Feynriel."

That is a hard one to refute. Feynriel seems to be raking his brain for an appropriate answer.

"He helped me with the dreams," he says, at last. "The demons were becoming more insistent."

Good for you, she thinks. It almost leaves her tongue. But he is too far gone; nothing would really change his mind. And she can barely stand. Even thinking is arduous. Annulment persists, draining her little by little.

She sees his feet first. Then the ridiculous armor. Too ornate. Too much of everything. Even the wolf pelt is back.

But his face is colored with terror. Solas walks the burned ground, mindful of the blood splatters, and he looks distressed.

Then his eyes land on her.

"You're too late," she says. "He's gone."

His voice breaks on the first word. He tries again. "So I am," he says.

His face is somewhat gaunt, something she thought she'd never see, the sharp angles made even sharper. Shadows slip into the crinkles by his eyes; the lines at his mouth.

He takes her hands to try and pull her to her feet.

And she tries to rise, she really does, but her legs fold beneath her. It's graceless, this fall of hers. Her temple collides with the ground just as teeth close over her already wounded lip. She spits the combination of blood and saliva that aspires to clog her throat.

Solas' hand finds the small of her back, rubbing in gentle circles.

"I did warn you that the Anchor took much from you," he whispers. "And yet you insist on pushing yourself."

Her split lip radiates pain, but it doesn't matter.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her weathered sleeve and tries not to think of what will happen now.

She thinks she just might not care anymore.


	43. Handle With Care

She is too tired to protest.

Solas takes her by the elbow. He leads her carefully, quiet pretense cracking every time she isn't facing him directly. When she looks ahead his gaze darts left, at her, and his brow furrows, eyes crinkle. And when she makes an abrupt turn of the head, he is stone once more.

She feels his fingers probe her side; little tapping, searching, inquisitive motions traveling up and down, pressing through cloth. Wherever he touches, she feels warmth.

"You have a bruised rib," he comments.

"So that's what it is," she says, disinterested.

It takes much not to hiss with pain and anger. Or double over. It didn't hurt nearly this much, on the spot, when she stepped in to shield Dorian from a subduing blow of a greataxe's blunt end.

"You will have to lie down," he says. "The spell will not hold while you are agitated; the bone won't heal."

"Of course," she says.

She knows it. He knows she knows it. They've been through this routine a thousand times over. He set her teeth when a behemoth decided to wipe the floor with her and tended to muscles ripped by a clumsy fall. He doesn't have to explain anything, but he wants to talk and in so doing clings to trivialities.

He makes idle chatter, and she's not really listening.

They have to stop meeting like that; as less than equals.

But Qarinus is beautiful and she can't scowl eternally. The swarming waters made dark by night; the dragons of bronze and copper perched atop the highest buildings of old design, immortalized guardians; the clear, calm, simple order and smell of sand and dust. It was great once, she can tell. Much effort has been put toward rebuilding, but its former glory is yet to be restored. The city fares almost too well. For a second, she wants to stay here—where there is no blood or conflict—and just as quickly remembers that she is alone. The desire vanishes.

Solas knows where he's going, there is no hesitation to his step. He leads her to a relatively small cottage that has clearly seen better days. A part has collapsed, but the main wing  has been cleared out and the staircase is sturdy.

His Sentinels leave. They, too, have a place in this human city. It leaves her with a bitter taste in her mouth.

Among them is Abelas—because why wouldn't he be here?

And Solas looks almost awkward once they are alone. He wrings his hands. He tries to smile.

"What sort of peace have you brokered?" she asks.

At what cost. What was given up. On what side. It all withers on her tongue before she can speak, but he reads her eyes anyway.

"The kind you avoid like the plague with your bloody efforts," he says without any spite. She expects venom after such an affirmation, but he is only mild.

"You wanted the humans to die," she says, feeling like a dog with a bone. A very aggressive dog.

Solas waves his hand at her, eyebrows already knitting. "No," he says, "that is untrue. I wished no unnecessary death. Please, stop."

"You expected them not to survive."

"Which does not mean I found joy in the possibility of their demise."

It's like arguing with a wall.

It's like the Adamant Grey Warden disaster all over again.

It's all right. It's more than all right. While he is talking with her, he isn't going after Dorian. That was the whole point of staying behind.

But he is not exactly wrong either. He's done more to achieve quiet in the past months—ever since he robbed Dorian of the bulk of the Inquisition's forces with her unwitting aid—than they.

Leliana is doing Creators know what in Orzammar; Zevran wants to join her; her biggest accomplishment amounts to proudly begging Solas for horses; and Dorian succeeded in becoming possessed.

To say they are doing poorly would be an understatement.

Fucking champions, they are.

Solas' hand is on the small of her back again. He opens a door with his free one and ushers her inside.

"Sit," he says, "please."

The please doesn't do it—exhaustion does, but he smiles nonetheless. He sits beside her and she knows what he wants to say.

He clears his throat.

"Take off your shirt, vhenan," he says.

"No," she says too quickly, too fast, with too much heat.

There are a lot of bad decisions down that road and she is angry, but she is also tired and lonely and wants to touch his face because this gauntness doesn't suit him and she wants to tell him to, for the love of Mythal, eat something—a sharp intake of breath. She steels her nerves.

She is angry. She will always be angry.

She rests her head on a pillow stuffed with straw and stares at the ceiling while he tends to her ribs.

It's easier to breathe, but it's also not. Not when he's looking at her like this.

He twines their fingers together and lifts her hand to his mouth, lips brushing over her knuckles.

"I am sorry that nothing is as it should be," he murmurs. "I always wanted to give you more than this."

And this hurts. Like a hot iron through the chest. Because even if he did truly mean it back then, he still thought and accepted she would perish when he brought about a new age.

Slowly, she untangles their fingers and watches his hand fall.

"You have good intentions and nothing more, Solas," she murmurs.

They are made of air, his cursed good intentions, and he is alone.

He leaves and she continues staring at the ceiling because if she doesn't then her eyes will follow him. And his pain can't be hers.

He leaves and does not lock the door.

He leaves and so will she.

Again.

*

She doesn't want to see Feynriel.

She doesn't want to see Vivienne, wherever she is, close or near.

She wants a horse and a way out of here.

Because she is _done_. Maybe she'll recover peace of mind and head to Orzammar eventually. Maybe she'll find a cozy cave somewhere far away. Right now, old wounds fester as she gazes upon Solas' soldiers as they mingle with civilians, aloof Sentinels who speak not a word of Common and enthusiastic former Dalish who wear the plate and sigil of Fen'Harel with pride.

And then she sees Abelas.

He exits a monument of a building, a true work of art with gold-plated motives crawling up its base.

He locks the massive double doors with a spell and a flick of his wrist. He is efficient, he is quick, but there is a second during which his ward is not quite set and she feels the now familiar thrum of an eluvian.

She knew Solas had one nearby, but not in the heart of the city itself.

She feels nauseous.

It makes her doubt. But only for a minute. Only one.

Abelas turns a corner and disappears along a busy street while she flees down another, in the direction of where she remembers the makeshift stables to be. She has a brief recollection of Feynriel's men leading their mounts down this specific path.

It's not much at all, but she isn't picky. The stalls are locked, no groomer is present, and it is clear it's only a stopping point for the animals. Much like one would tie a dog to a tree while running back to fetch something before returning. She pets a Dalish All-Bred on the nose and coos affectionately while feeding it a discarded carrot.

It's small and affectionate and young. Which is good. She doesn't have anything to carry but her staff anyway.

Abelas' nasty dracolisk is here also.

Of course it would be.

It snorts at her.

"You have stolen quite enough horses, I believe."

Abelas' tone is chilled. His voice sounds somewhere above her ear, breath ruffling hair in its wake.

"Then I won't take a horse," she says, not turning around.

She is so fucking tired of him. They hate each other so passionately and yet he always finds a way back into her life.

_Idiots are overlooked every time_ , Zevran told her when she grilled him about his relationship with the Sentinel. She finds she can't even play daft to save her hide.

She makes her way toward the dracolisk. She kicks the beast's stall open and seizes its reins before it has a chance to rear. But it struggles and digs its hoof-paws into the ground, claws scraping against the stone beneath the hay covering it. She gives another impatient tug, cutting her finger on a sharp scale in the process.

"Unhand my mount," Abelas hisses.

"Maybe I should ask Solas for it again," she fires back. "You've no idea how satisfying it was to watch you sulk in a corner."

It's such an ugly scuffle too.

He doesn't really want to hurt her while she wants to hurt him very much. What a pathetic conundrum. He catches her wrist and she retaliates with a slap that leaves his cheek red. He succeeds in pulling her away from the stall and she stomps on his foot.

"I am tired of your antics," Abelas growls. "You will take no more horses."

"Since when did you become a horse whisperer? That one wants to come with me, don't you worry." And this doesn't even make any sense. She doesn't even know why she says it, but he looks confused and that's pleasing enough.

"You are spoiled by his affections—" he begins.

She doesn't let him finish. The end of his braid hangs down his shoulder and she gives it a forceful jerk.

He traps her new hand between two of his. She doesn't even realize that something is awry before he starts hissing and pulling away.

Abelas cradles his hand to his chest, palm pressing against the cool metal of his breastplate.

A trickle of blood hurries down his wrist.

And then there are arms encircling her, pushing her out of the way. Her knees are weak and her legs awkward; she allows herself to be moved and can't do nothing but stare at her hand. A gift from June. Skin and dawnstone and wood fused together into a grey mess. Feelings so muted, at times they seem no more than memories.

And it is bloody.

She's cast no spell.

Solas comes between them, looking very much the stern father. He waits until Abelas, still seething, leaves. He's never liked her, but he exudes an aura of murder now.

It's his sword hand, she remembers.

She doesn't want to cross paths with him ever again.

"Put this feud behind you," Solas orders. "He is a good man. Do not provoke him."

"Whatever you say," she mutters. Some of Abelas' hair is still within her grip. She pulls the pale strands away one by one.

His grimace dissolves. His features are no longer twisted but soft. He sighs, looping his arm with hers while she is still quiet.

He takes her away from the stables and makes a conscious effort to avoid Abelas. For his sake or hers, it is unclear and she doesn't really care. She will still get her horse eventually.

A sharp pain shoots up her arm; needles then knives then daggers, pricking and cutting. And she is smiling, lower lip trembling nervously. It's a feeling, it's a true feeling.

"What is wrong?" she hears Solas ask. He is probing with his magic again, looking for weak spots and crudely healed wounds.

Her gaze lands on the spiraling tower housing the city's only eluvian.

Her vision is blurry and then it is not. She feels warmth. She sees too many colors.

Abelas' ward is so easy to break—how could she have missed it? She needs but to touch it. It's a new knowledge but already in her bones, refusing to allow doubt. It's overwhelming and thrilling and she's not quite herself while this rush of exhilaration persists.

"Nothing," she says, brushing off Solas' concern.

"We will stay a few days," he says.

His voice barely register. She nods even though she isn't listening.

Perhaps she won't require a horse after all.


	44. Phantoms of Past and Present

The wine is bitter, a vintage. The earthy taste is to be expected and cherished, but she is no aficionado. One glass becomes two and the flavor along with the drink's dull hue have tinted her lips.

She hates herself. More than a little. More than a lot.

Perhaps Solas doesn't deserve better, but the _memory of_ _them_ does. One more thing for her to taint.

The hand at her chin freezes when she fails to respond with her usual spite.

"I've come to wish you goodnight," he says.

He is a little fidgety. A little lost. A little alert.

He kisses her cheek and she does not turn her head. It's been such a long time since he hasn't had to chase her lips, her brow, her skin. Her.

She has missed his warm breath, but not what he's become thanks to his actions. What and who are still such contrary notions yet they should not be. She thinks she will always be a little sick with him.

He shakes his head when she catches him by the lapels of his coat. He quirks an eyebrow and makes a face and stills her inquisitive fingers when se retaliates and tries to pull his face to hers.

"What are you doing?" he asks,  thumbing her ear and keeping her at a distance. Contrary, just like she is.

"Passing time," she says.

"Would you not rather chance another attempt at stealing a horse?" he says, and this time he is smiling. It is teasing. It is light. It is embarrassing.

"I'll get back to it in the morning," she promises.

His fingers slide down the bladed tip of her ear when she does manage to anchor him in. Fingers become hand, and said hand cups the back of her neck, not restraining but also not encouraging. Not participating.

He is frowning once she draws back, but his lips are parted and she's already tasted him.

"I am too old for parlor tricks," he says. "What do you want, vhenan?"

She feels a pang. It shouldn't be there at all—she should be stone and her heart granite—but this is just another insult to them.

He is right to doubt, of course, but when have their kisses acquired the tang of deceit?

And she, the one playing, is stupid to feel betrayed.

"I'm not here to pull a nug from your robes," she says, putting on her best grimace, "or take off with your coin pouch in the middle of the night. Either you want to stay or you don't."

She crosses her arms. She gives him space.

And now he is confused. His careful concentration breaks. He welcomes the next kiss and his hands slide under her shirt, tracing the hollows between her ribs and hiking a path up her spine.

He kisses the right corner of her mouth. The left. He buries his face in her hair and murmurs, "Ar lath ma."

He wants her to hear it, but he does not pull back to read her face. The splinters and cracks and slivers of emotions those words may have caused, he does not wish to see. He doesn't want to risk painful surprise and does not expect an answer. They're both good at avoiding things.

He pushes her flat against the bed and tugs her shirt up and over her head.

Somewhere along the way, her mind flees. Or goes blank. It doesn't matter. She touches his jaw and nips at his pulse and delights in the way he shudders above her.

He presses her hips solidly to the bed and breathes raggedly against her throat, heart fluttering, and she thinks he's still trying to read her. He is still suspicious, and she bucks against him until there is no more space. Not even for a single breath. Her eyelashes brush his cheek as she blinks and her hand finds its way between their bodies to touch him through the layers.

Innocent butterfly kisses, she thinks, and almost tears up.

She can't move and then she can, helping him out of his clothes of which there are too many. Ridiculous robes and ridiculous designs, brocade and silk—everything that isn't Solas.

He is pensive for a moment as he sneaks his hand in her hair. He looks at her as if trying to memorize her features.

Or unravel her.

"I will take whatever you are willing to give," he says.

Her breath stutters and she doesn't quite know what to say, what to make of this. Solas' ambitions were always grandiose; he did not settle for half a world and a half life with her.

But then he is kissing her and she doesn't have to think of a reply.

He sucks her lower lip into his mouth and between her legs he is warm; hard and too warm and achingly familiar, and when he slides in it is sweet and tender.

*

He does not fall asleep for so long that she begins to fear this was a bad plan.

He rests on his side, facing her. He traces a path which begins at her hipbone, glides over her belly in rubbing motions, pauses at her breast to cup and massage, before ending at her mouth. He swipes his thumb over her lips before it is gone, replaced by his mouth. It is not demanding, his tongue does not seek to part or dominate. He breathes her in and seems content with just that.

She hums because this is nice and not something she has to lie about. She touches his cheekbone when he pulls away, her leg caught between his, pressing right against him. A tangle of limbs, and that's the way she used to like it. Still does. She berates herself for basking in the afterglow; her mind must be clear and here she is thinking of how perfectly blue his eyes are.

"I will need to meet with the city's leaders come morning," he says.

"What for?" she asks, and her own voice sounds so far away.

She is so warm. So comfortable.

For a moment, she wonders who is deceiving who.

Solas says something she does not hear. He coils errant tendrils of hair around his finger as a mean to get her attention.

"Will you come with me?" he asks.

She tenses and immediately he is rubbing her arm. He touches whatever inch of skin he can reach. Like there isn't enough of her, like there never will be.

"Why?" she says. He is asking now? He isn't kissing her silent like he did after springing news of Antiva on her?

"They were—are you friends too," he says.

Feynriel is many things, but he was never a true friend. Perhaps Dorian's, but never hers. There was a small window of opportunity and he was the one to slam it shut.

Of Vivienne, she doesn't know what to make.

So she says nothing.

He kisses her forehead. He sounds so peaceful. "I have missed talking with you."

She doesn't move when his breathing slows. She stays still and allows it to hit her cheek until she is certain that it is even.

She considers changing at least her smalls, but rummaging around the room could wake him. There are worse things than running around with damp thighs.

She dresses with the swiftness of a soldier woken at night during a fire. Cullen would be proud.

She considers scattering Solas' clothes to the seven winds, but instead settles on burning every single article. Somehow it's not satisfying, but it's as efficient a way of slowing him down as any. Hurling fireballs would yield less result—this at least will prove equal measures confusing and embarrassing.

Unable to help herself, she kisses the freckled spot beneath his eye because in sleep he is still just Solas and almost hers.

*

Abelas' ward breaks as soon as she touches it. The rush of power is exhilarating; there is no glass to gaze into, but she is certain her pupils must be blown wide.

There are no guards at the door, although a patrol often walks by, and she understands why.

The tower needs no sentinel when the lock is sealed with blood.

This is some kind of blood magic, or an ancient variant of it, and thus nigh impossible to tamper with. She remembers her bloody palm after injuring Abelas and wonders how long the enchantment will last, if it hasn't run out already.

It stands to reason that the eluvian would obey her as well as his ward; he has access to the network, a knowledge he should have never shared with her.

The eluvian is kept on the top floor in a room of stone and little light.

It greets her with a hum. For the first time, it is more than the buzzing of magic at the back of mind. It almost makes sense. It is a melody without sound or notes, music that exists without existing.

The mirror is happy to see her.

It is inactive, but not for long. She has but to graze the woodwork of the frame before glass becomes a swirl of grays and purples. So unlike the one from the temple of Mythal.

Her new hand feels hot, she thinks. Or perhaps her mind is aflame with her heart beating such a furious staccato. It's so hard to tell.

It doesn't even matter what is on the other side; it is miles away from Qarinus and she will smash it once through. By the time Solas gets there—if he gets there—she will be long gone.

Ellana takes a single step.

There is no night sky or stars to navigate by.

There is no plush grass.

There is no earth, no mud, no gravel or running water.

No imposing fortress.

There is an everlasting, ever-stretching grayness that has swallowed sky and earth alike.

She is in the Crossroads.

The graveyard of eluvians remains and they are all odd. Not broken, but not whole. Their image vacillates, as if caught between two planes. There are hairline cracks and smooth surfaces; battered frames and stonework shining with glory that should be long past; the glass is dusty and scratched but it is also immaculate. She needs but to blink, tilt her head. One reality shifts and allows another to step forth.

She feels disoriented.

There were trees here, she remembers. Unnatural and odd things, nursed by magic eons ago, symmetrical and perfect, forming spherical cages with their branches curving heavenward as they stood silent guard at each eluvian.

They are broken and disfigured. They bleed. Formless spirits have curled around the shattered bases to fill in the holes, but the spectacle is grotesque at best. They are like birds—gray, black, pearly, white.

It is a painted world and color has fled.

"Magic," one of them says.

Dozens of eyes open, focusing on her.  Stalking her.

"Here, we bleed," another whispers.

"You do not," the first one feels the need to clarify. And it's so disturbing, so off-putting to see eyes but no mouth, to hear a voice but not know its provenance. "You will."

She stumbles. The nearest eluvian is also the shiniest. She almost bangs on the glass, but remembers herself and merely offers it a caress.

This one is lazy, it grumbles. It's unhappy to be disturbed—at least the present version of it, for when she looks at it from a different angle the picture is quite different.

This time the surface is blue and black while the frame is golden.

And there is something else.

Something that takes her aback so entirely that she bites through her lip; it bleeds anew, the scab torn off, causing a first drop to land on her tongue.

"Not like that," the same spirit says.

She tries to ignore it. Tries so hard.

The eluvian is not alone.

This little bit of color is blinding.

"June?" she gasps.

He does not look at her. Doesn't turn around. Runes light up where his fingers glide, and he works with chisel and mallet, tools of unparalleled beauty. His movements are fluid as he etches motives and enchantments into the interweaving wood and stone.

He has none of the madness she's witnessed, appearing so very peaceful while engrossed in his work.

She reaches out to touch him, but stills when another one beats her to it. She does not see the woman, but knows that it is one. This window, this alternate view, is so narrow. All she glimpses is a frail wrist adorned with bejeweled bracelets which June is quick to grasp and kiss.

He laughs. He smiles. He caresses the ring that bears that same symbols as the left side of the medallion he forbade her to touch but which is curiously absent now.

She makes a wrong move and the image vanishes.

She touches the air. Swats at it.

He was never here at all.

Her minds hurts and she activates the eluvian before her nerves fray.

But it doesn't lead her far. She steps out and she is still in the Crossroads, forced to kick a mountain of broken branches out of the way. Spirits dwelling there find themselves disturbed; they hiss at her. One comes close enough to claw her eyes out, sharp teeth of soot bared, but decides against it.

And then she hears it.

"Ellana."

She twirls on her heels. She feels her heart seize.

She sees Dorian, but it can't be Dorian. He can't be here. In any shape or capacity.

He smiles as she narrows her eyes, noticing that he isn't alone. The shadow is right beside him and both are reaching out to her.

Side by side, perfect copies.

Outstretched hands and missing little fingers.

Where Dorian is losing blood, the Shadow oozes darkness, a black, thick liquid akin to tar. There is a puddle at their feet and it grows deeper by the second.

Drip, drip, drip. Red, black, red, black.

"No," she says. She shakes her head. She will not approach.

They both sigh, defeated. The Shadow steps back into Dorian and both are gone. She looks at the spot they occupied and there is nothing, no blood or corruption.

After that, she rushes through the eluvians. Some take her far, others lead out of one that is mere inches away.

The quiet is unsettling and she doesn't know how much time has passed until she stumbles upon a different vision.

And this one she can't look away from.

It is Solas, or at least the person he used to be. He doesn't quite look like himself, but some instinctive part of her roars in recognition. He is like a dog left in the rain. He shakes. He comes close to howling.

At his feet is a body, but to say whose would be a challenge.

She is going to be sick. She is going to throw up.

Head bashed in like a bird's egg; blood and bone and—are those brains—no, no—scattered in a radius that would suggest brute force. It is all mingles with the flowing river of pale hair, chunks of skull caught on tangles and blood making mats out of undone braids and decorative strings of pearls. The wrists have been slashes past arteries and veins; the chest has long deflated, almost hiding the intricate hilt of a blade plunged so deep into it.

Any and all life points tended to in the most barbaric manner.

An echo of a spell whines like a lute, sucking life force that no longer remains out of the body. Another culprit. Another safeguard.

She runs. She chooses the ugliest eluvian because it doesn't even matter at this point. She has to get out. She has to.

But it leads her straight into another image; she almost collides with the phantoms.

"Alone you will achieve nothing," the first one says.

She doesn't really see him. He is there, but he is not. He is featureless, but his voice is Dorian's. Her mind conjures his exact tones and it's sick, disturbing, but she can't change it.

"Perhaps," says the Solas from before.

They join lips. It is not love and the furthest thing from affection. It feels more like an acknowledgement, or perhaps the sealing of a deal.

"Your sister is already mad," Dorian's voice intones.

Solas barks out a mirthless laugh, and they dissipate. Parcel by parcel, color by color. They crumble and fall and disappear, blown away like smoke without breath.

There is no wind. Not even the slightest breeze.

Solas' voice cuts through the silence like a knife; he shatters the quiet.

She sees him as he steps out of the original eluvian and goes pale. Blood drains from his face.

He did not expect to end up here. This is not where the eluvian was meant to lead. Something happened because of her.

Their eyes meet and he is so far away that she has time to make it to the next mirror before he takes off. But he fade-steps. He closes the distance between them faster than she can create it.

She jumps through the glass. He follows, disoriented. He glances around, trying to figure out where she'll up this time. Too many variants, too many ways out. He is logical, but there is no logic here and she can almost hear the gears of his mind giving out, rusting away, failing to form thoughts or ideas.

She pushes through the new set of phantoms, and this time there is red, there are well-known voices.

She sees Leliana as she brandishes a rod of solid crystal with a blue hue about it, her lips barely visible beneath the hood she wears so very low.

"You ask for sacrifice," a disembodied and so very angry voice bellows.

Leliana's pretty lips shape a reply, but she too crumbles, the image of her flickering until the painted red mouth is ashen and fades into the background.

Arms come up behind her and she almost screams. Solas is here, he's caught up, and she thinks he will crack her ribs all over again.

He is whispering.

He should be shouting, but he is whispering.

"You attuned the eluvian to the Crossroads," he says. "You should not have done that, Ellana. It is a barren land."

"The Fade bleeds through here," he says.

 _Here, we bleed_ , she recalls the spirit's words.

He presses his face to her shoulder. He is shaking with rage, she thinks. Rage would be better than the alternative.

"You will not leave my sight again," he snaps.

He tries dragging her away, but she twists, she turns, she is worse than an eel in his grasp. The next eluvian activates with only her breath fogging it; they respond to her quicker than they do to Solas.

She kicks him and he lets go long enough for her to jump through. This time the glass is orange and white; it hurts her eyes.

It stands to reason that if she can open the eluvians, there must be a way to seal them as well.

She tries. She strokes the glass with the back of her new hand—and it is hot, it is almost burning, and she feels it deep in her bones. It's not a memory of a feeling this time, but the real thing.

Solas only has the time to thrust his arm through before the surface freezes. The glass shatters. It cuts his forearm, a deep gash that spurts blood and she knows that it hit an artery. He casts a healing spell, but his sleeve is already soaked and dripping by the time he's done.

He sways.

He pauses.

This brief hesitation is enough for the shadows to crawl down from their broken trees. They circle him, with their expressionless eyes, formless bodies and teeth of smoke and soot.

They are not like Cole and they are not like Mischief. They are not animals, but their limbs are long and adorned with claws. They should be incorporeal, but those claws scrape along the ground the same way an executioner's axe would.

Potent hatred fills the air.

The spirits do not attack, but Solas turns them to ash nonetheless. A cloud of dust settles around him, remains of enraged beings. And he is shaking, his shoulders slumped, for at his feet the scene she witnessed before unfurls once more.

The one with the murdered woman.

There is more blood this time. So much more. The Fade puts on a more chaotic performance just for him.

He loses himself in his madness for too long before he goes hunting for an active eluvian to catch up with her. He trips over his own feet; she's never seen him so unsettled.

She activates the eluvian humming at her right and it welcomes her in its sea of warm green.

There is no Solas on the other side.

Still no grass. No sun.

She doesn't even know if she's in the Crossroads anymore.

It is gray and that's all it is.


	45. Guard Your Secrets

Solas catches up to her when she finally finds another eluvian.

The land is barren and empty, true to his word. The only mirror is different too, older and sturdier, so cracked that she fear she might not get through. Or end up with endless shards in her throats and veins and arteries like Solas when she deactivated it.

The eluvian responds a tad too quickly to her touch—and then she realizes she wasn't the one to open it.

Solas comes out like a storm. This is not the Fade, but it bleeds through and even here it responds to him. He pulls the light in, shapes it like a cloak around him.

"It's that thing," he hisses.

She doesn't like how he's staring at her new arm.

He takes one step forward.

She takes one back.

"You're not ripping off my arm a second time," she warns.

It sounds so absurd when she says it. This whole situation is absurd.

Solas makes some sort of face. It's grimace and a frown and the embodiment of disbelief rolled into one.

She gets a good look at him, finally. He wears one of his worse sweaters, something she knows he keeps to use as both a rag and a defense against paint whenever he takes up a brush. This is not the Dread Wolf; he presents as a hobo painter if anything.  It's ridiculous but the part of her that would have laughed at it is long gone.

She makes as if to go left but he blocks her from both sides, rightfully expecting deception. His arm wraps around her middle, pressing against her abdomen forcefully enough to expel all breath from her lungs.

"Where would you have gone?" he asks as he pulls her back to face him. "You have corrupted the network. It is a closed circuit. You will not get out of the Crossroads."

He looks mystified, but he is also angry.

"We are going back," he says.

"Immediately," he adds.

She deflates. She can't stay in the Crossroads forever and he's her ticket out.

Maybe next time the mirror will open to a different view—maybe next time she'll remember to actually break it—so many maybes.

She thinks of Zevran and Dorian and Leliana and Orzammar. She thinks of many things and many people, and the Fade is responding to her thoughts. Not as strongly as it does to Solas, but it still conjures colors previously unknown to this dying place.

Leliana is a pale copy of who she should be, but her hair is a vibrant red and so much longer than she remembers.

And Solas is watching. She feels his fingers dig into her wrist.

She doesn't want him looking. She doesn't want him listening to the muted voices, partaking in secrets that are not his to know.

"You ask us to throw away our lives," the same furious tone from before intones, its owner still imperceptible.

"Not your lives," Leliana answers, ever patient. She twirls the crystal rod. Tests its weight. She brandishes it at a point neither Solas nor she can see and in the unknown distance something stirs. "Only your knowledge."

"Do you not recall the Warden's record of the Harv—"

The vision fluctuates. Colors bleed out of it. First the blue of Leliana's cloak and then the crimson of her mouth. She leaves behind a trail of pigment that the weeping Fade rushes to swallow up.

"What is this?" Solas says.

He almost forgets her. He flicks his wrist, willing the image to return. And it nearly does. Little by little, fragment by fragment, Leliana is recreated, but even as her lips move her throat knows no sound.

Solas struggles. He can't make her talk again.

"...lyrium," he mumbles, and she doesn't really know what he means, doesn't want to know.

She's not even listening; her blood is curdled, so very thick, and as it rushes with the frantic pumping of her heart, she can't hear nothing but.

Whatever this is, he can't see it.

"Stop," she says.

She shakes him. She puts herself in his line of sight and rises on tiptoes, forcing him to crane his neck.

"You know something about this," he realizes, and then he redoubles his efforts.

He pushes her out of the way, but he is exhausted and still disoriented. His eyes dart like mad. Left, right, left, right. As if he still expects the broken spirits to pounce at him.

She remembers Mischief and its litany. _Hate, hate, hate._

Solas is wrong, of course. She knows nothing at all and won't allow him near that knowledge either.

The next time he tries to move her, she grows roots. She pushes back against him and then it's a skirmish. She twists, he sidesteps, she crashes a fist against his chest and he catches one of her wrists.

"What is it?" he asks. "What are you hiding?"

And he is still trying to summon the wisp of Leliana back.

She thinks she slaps him. It certainly sounds like so. Just a slap and nothing more.

But there is an odd sensation of the fingers of her new hand catching on something, nails slashing easily through skin. It wouldn't be the first time she got him across his sharp cheekbones.  But he's never reacted quite like this.

He staggers, knees weak and the muscles in his neck going rigid. He draws away from her and his hands come up to shield his face. Blood seeps through the spaces between his fingers.

He forgets about whatever the Fade tried to show her. He activates the eluvian and doesn't even bid her to follow.

He leans against the thick frame and finally looks at her.

She is going to be sick.

The cut is clean and deep, going right through his eye. She thinks she may have ruptured it. The blue of his iris is so pronounced, a stark contrast against the bloodshot backdrop. His pupil is peaked, perhaps the most disconcerting of all details. He bleeds; thick droplets rolling like tears down his cheek.

He sways. He doesn't try to heal himself and she thinks he doesn't want to risk attracting the spirits. They are demented, starved for magic of which the Crossroads have been drained of. And he is an endless well.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whispers.

She can't help herself. He did so much—he deserves so much more pain—but not by her hand, never hers. She can lie and pretend to offer him a moment of peace. She can leave in the middle of the night. She can bite his hand and spit the blood right back at him. But she can't remain solemn and apathetic as agony twists his features.

She lends him her strength, brushing her lips against his throat as he leans against her. His breath wheezes through his teeth and she thinks he's going to pass out from the pain.

"I'm sorry," she keeps repeating even after they've gone through the eluvian.

Her hand reeks of his blood. She wipes it against her thigh, but it is not enough. The stench persists, turning her stomach upside down. Something viscous and bloody resides beneath her fingernails.

The strength which came with June's arm was alluring at first. Now, she wants it gone. One day it will be more than an eye. One day she'll break bone and send marrow to clog someone's veins.

Solas exhales a shuddering breath. He blinks and she sees that she even managed to slice through his eyelid.

She holds his hand. She sits beside him as he slides down the wall, her legs gradually folding while following him down. Tendrils of magic, soft green weaved with calming blue, float from his fingertips. The cut closes; the blood remains, now caked.

She kisses his nose and he rests his forehead against hers before trying to stand.

He only makes it to the first step of the spiral staircase before utter horror seizes him. It's like a phantom. She can almost imagine it wrap itself around him, chin perched on his shoulder as it gloats over terrible truths.

"Help me down," Solas requests. "I can only see shadows from this eye."

She can't swallow the knot in her throat.

This is truly what they are now. They've moved past hurting each other on merely an emotional level. It's an ascension of the disturbing kind.

She damaged his eye and he will send for June to possibly remove her newest limb that absorbs foreign magic and wounds without thought.

She doesn't know what will happen once they reach the base of the tower.


	46. Lethallan

She can't attest to the extent of Solas' anger. She doesn't even have the time to assess the damage, both physical and mental, before he leaves. The ward he puts on the tower's door is unlike Abelas'; it doesn't feed on blood magic nor is it a pattern she recognizes. She can't break it, he knows she can't break it, and that's the end of that.

"What if I scale the wall?" she muses, calling after him, trying to seize him up.

He flicks his wrist. "I shall be there to put your bones back together."

It's a rather ominous answer.

And the only one she gets.

It should be satisfying to watch him stagger, but it isn't.

It's a little frightening, this sudden freedom to roam and do as she pleases. Because they both know she can't go far, but she still can go _somewhere_ —and suddenly there's too many choices, no matter how odd the sentiment.

She finds Wynne.

The woman is awake, but she is unwell. Her skin is the color of ash, her eyes bloodshot, her lips blue. She is a drowning victim who breathes; a corpse with a still-beating heart and too-cold blood.

She should not be smiling, but she is.

Perhaps it is a rictus.

Frail fingers trail through white hair; strands come undone and break off like straw. Wynne doesn't seem to notice.

Ellana lowers herself to her bed. She perches at the edge of the modest mattress, thighs barely grazing the surface. She fists the covers.

"Zevran is not here," she murmurs. "I'm sorry."

Sorry that her only friend was forced to flee because of her. Sorry that Dorian's folly cost her the spirit that sustained her. Sorry for so many, many things but there aren't enough words. Nor will there ever be.

"He's a silly boy," Wynne says . "Always wears his heart on his sleeve."

"He is wonderful," she agrees.

"And silly," Wynne repeats. "But he wouldn't accept this. He'd be afraid."

When Wynne's hand finds hers, Ellana expects it to be soft. A wavering, quivering touch devoid of strength. But it is steel and iron; lithe fingers coil around her wrist and nails leave crescent-shaped indentation upon her skin.

It is but a glimmer at first, and then it's fireflies, stars plummeting out of the sky, tiny flames that escape some distant inferno. It all pours from Wynne's fingertips only to burrow beneath her flesh.

It is warm.

It is soft.

It's comfort that is silk and velvet and satin. A hand of solace and one of serenity, both joined in a cupping gesture around her heart.

"It is not whole," Wynne rasps. Her voice comes in ragged breaths and wheezing whispers now. "But it is a sliver of—faith."

"Faith?" Ellana repeats.

She grips her hands, willing the light to flow back into her withering body. But it settles gently in her veins and warms some of her blood.

It doesn't want to leave.

This last, minimal part of the spirit that has sustained Wynne for so long—that brought her back from the grave twice—is content to simply dwell inside her.

"Gifts can't be returned," Wynne whispers.

Ellana thinks she blinks.

It's so hard to tell.

To see.

She brings a mirror to the woman's lips and waits for her breath to fog the surface.

It never does and the glass shatters at her feet.

*

Faith is quiet.

But sometimes it sings. A hollow, wordless chant that fills her with peace.

Solas will never know.

*

Solas sends for June.

She can tell because he is beyond frustrated and spends hours locked in the tower housing the eluvian. His network must be horribly compromised to have him sacrificing sleep.

She is secretly glad about it.

No, not secretly. She is simply glad.

He paces. He stares at her and he paces some more.

"I will not be marooned in this city of shemlen," he says.

 _You never called them shemlen before_ , she wants to say. _You resented them and found them endless flaws—but they were human._

What would be the point.

"You are hardly marooned," she says, shrugging. " _We_ were _actually_ marooned in Minrathous. This is just you throwing a tantrum because your toys are suddenly defective and you don't want to spend hours on horseback."

He glares because he knows she's right.

"What happened to the eluvians?" she asks.

She doesn't really expect an answer, but he huffs and gives her one anyway.

"They lead to the Crossroads more times than not," he says. "Unreliable." And there he throws his arms in the air as if to illustrate his point in a more dramatic way.

His veneer is beginning to crack. He still can't really see from his damaged eye. He has difficulty with depth perception and it riles him up. Just a little more and she'll unleash whatever is festering within him.

She's not sure she wants to see it.

"Come," he says, extending one hand to her. "We shall meet with those who call themselves masters of this city."

She hesitates.

She stares at his hand as if it is a viper about to strike.

But he's kept her in the dark for too long. She won't risk missing light.

He pulls her to her feet and he leads her into the market square where his entourage already awaits. There are Sentinels, and only them. There is Abelas at their head, thighs gripping the sides of his ugly dracolisk a bit too tightly when he spots her.

He glowers and she glowers back.

Solas takes her to a shabby looking horse and simply waits.

"I want one of my own," she says.

"No," he says so very simply, tone even more neutral. "I do not trust you with horses anymore."

Perhaps he thinks she'll take off and trample civilians in her escape. He's not exactly wrong. It could happen.

He puts his hands on her waist, hoisting her up before she can protest. She squares her jaw and leans as far back as possible, making sure barely anything of the saddle space remains for him.

"I want my own horse," she repeats, when his arms sneak around her middle to find the reins.

"You wake bloodthirsty creatures the world attempted to bury time after time and corrupt the oldest of artifacts," Solas says. "You are not leaving my sight."

Abelas sort of huffs in the distance, smug and satisfied. She shots him yet another glare but it does little for peace of mind.

Despite the harshness of Solas' words, his touch is soft. His thumb brushes circles against her skin, an idle gesture that is oddly comforting whenever she forgets herself.

And whenever she does, whenever his body grows too warm and pleasant behind her, she wriggles. She forces herself out of this state of consciousness dulled by relaxation. His breath against her ear is familiar and so is his touch. This part was always good. His words were lies, but his touches were always tender.

Qarinus is large. Meager crowds part to let them through, but the trek to the mansion serving as a palace is long.

"You can't take my arm," she says eventually. "It's all I have."

His exhale of breath is harsh. It tickles the hairs at the back of her neck.

"Not exactly true," he says. "You have me." Slender fingers briefly run up and down her sides in a hasty caress. "I will find a replacement for this abomination. You will not have to suffer."

But she isn't suffering.

He's only telling himself that to feel better. To justify his actions.  It's so typical. Such a vicious circle.

"I have you," she repeats, thoughtful.

"I love you," he says, and this time his breath actually catches in his throat. Hitches. Comes out on a stutter. She feels his thunderous heartbeat through the worn cloth of his robes.

"I don't completely hate you," she says. Then, before hope swells in his chest and he dares to kiss her temple—his lips are already so near—she adds, "Yet. It's quickly coming, though."

He's crushed her own hopes so many times.

She wonders if he feels the same right now, just this instant. Just once.

"You mustn't be so contrary, Ellana."

"It's not about that," she argues. "It's about my arm." And back to square one. "You can't take it. It's mine. I have this one thing that makes me powerful again and you want to take it away."

"You have me," he repeats.

Yes, she thinks. Yes, she does have him, and he is a force to be reckoned with. But she doesn't want books or murals or painting lessons. She doesn't want to stand beside him as he restores Arlathan and brings back glories of old. He can give her so much, and she wants none of it.

She only ever wanted him. So long ago. So very, very long ago.

She doesn't know what she wants anymore.

She wants Dorian back and Zevran's smile. Easy things.

"That's long ceased to be enough," she says.

His hands tighten their grip on the reins. She feels his jaw tense where it is propped againt her shoulder, an overly-familiar gesture.

He straightens his back, no longer leaning against her.

There. The chink in the armor.

For all his patience, she's finally hurt him.

"Are you going to give me a horse of my own?" she asks for a thousand time.

"No," he says, voice hoarse and reply clipped.

She shifts a little in the saddle, her thighs burning from being pressed so firmly against it. This one wasn't meant to be shared. They are too close to one another.

"How does it feel to be the most successful cradle-robber of history?" she asks.

"The weather is delightful," he says, making a show of admiring the early morning sky, the horizon still tinted with red.

Faith hums in her chest. It's been quiet ever since it passed from Wynne to her, but now, for some reason, it's decided to make itself known. The morsel of spirit crawls ever deeper into her heart until she can't inhale properly.

The next breath, she skips completely.

And then air is sweeter than it ever was.

But Solas' hand is already hovering above the very spot and she feels his concern—something she once cherished but in this moment a frightening beast—drape over her.

"What is it?" he asks.

She bats his hand away.

He can't know. She doesn't know why, but he just can't. It's not his secret. It's not even hers. It's Wynne's, and she won't betray her.

He put down the deranged spirits in the Crossroads. There is no telling what he will do to a broken-off piece of one that now just gallivants about her mind.

"You will not annoy me into giving you a horse," Solas remarks, his tone lazy.

He kisses the crown of her head.

"Millennia-old pervert," she says.

"Yes, the sky is very clear today," he says.

Perhaps she'll fail at irritating him, but she certainly wounds him. For as he dismounts, there is a flicker of hurt—or perhaps discomfort—on his face which he is quick to mask. He avoids the gazes of his men altogether.

His hands tremble a little as he helps her down.

She touches his face.

She can't help herself.

There it is, that guilt that she never quite succeeded in smothering. His pupil is still peaked; he still holds himself oddly; he hesitates a little too long before descending a staircase.

He leans into her palm, almost tamed, almost hers.

But it doesn't last and she pulls away just as quickly.

Solas turns to welcome a small group of riders that joined them at some point. She failed to even notice, too engrossed in their bickering.

She doesn't have to squint to recognize the figure in the center. Ridiculous hair and too-wide grin.

"How are the eluvians?" Solas asks.

"The network held while we were crossing," June says while wringing his hands, "but went unstable the second we stepped through."

Solas nods. His hands go to his back where he clasps them. He doesn't say a thing—he doesn't have to. She thinks he might grind his teeth to powder from the way his jaw is set.

He turns away from her and his men, few as they are, part as he walks toward the grand staircase. It must have been built by masters long ago to intimidate slaves with the imagery of superiority, but every step he takes makes him ever taller. At the top, figures clad in white and gold await.

She sees Vivienne and feels her blood go cold.

She sees Maevaris and feels but confusion; the woman leans on her staff and not out of boredom.

"Come," Abelas calls, but he is still busy soothing his dracolisk, his back to her.

The only pair of eyes on her are June's.

"Hello, lethallan," he says.

His smile is so meek. His voice so demure. She sees but the barest hint of teeth for it is early and the mansion is yet blocking the sunrise.

"Hello," she says, unsure.

Her blood boils. Her fingers twitch. Her arm jerks. The fist she didn't know she created connects with her nose before she can breathe—blink—call for help.

She gasps. She stammers, an odd sound between a yelp and a word. But it is still so dark and June stands in shadows.

He hushes her. He lends her his support and his curtain of auburn hair hangs low over her shoulder, hiding her face from the world.

Perhaps she tripped. Fell over. Who could say?

The blood from her nose drips in fat, hurried droplets, staining the soft doeskin of her boots. From there, they roll into the puddle of morning rain they both are standing in.

"How clumsy," June croons. "You must be more careful."

Abelas is staring now. Frowning.

She thinks she sees the shadow of her former vallaslin in the puddle of rainwater and mud and blood before Abelas all but yanks her away into the circle of his own arms.

June smiles. He hums a tune with no clear pattern and notes that do not match. It is a melody lacking rhythm. He follows Solas without word, pausing every so often to admire an odd detail in the architecture of the mansion. He is particularly fascinated with the loyal dragon sentries.

Abelas brings his sleeve to her bloody nose and says nothing.


	47. Zugzwang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I've been gone for a while, but I've been going through a rough patch... Basically, I got threatened at work that I will be fired if I don't adhere more to their standard of "swindling people" which I hate doing and will not. I'm not going to force a person to come by twice when they've already paid---and when they don't need it. Ugh. It's just such a kick in the gut to basically being told that you're not good enough because I'm what, trying to do my job while being a decent human being??? It's not even like I was slacking off.
> 
> So that put me off. A lot. And I know I shouldn't take it that much to heart, but I've never been threatened to be fired before. And it's not even like it matters. It's a fucking student job and I already aced an interview for something better and have another one coming up, but it just hit me so hard and I got super depressed because of it..... Anyway, yeah.... But I think I'm back on track now.

Vivienne does not seethe. She does not scream. She does not belong in Qarinus yet it is hers nonetheless. An Enchanter of a twice rebuilt and crumbled Circle in the flowing attire of bright gold and rich navy of a Magister; captivating, if nothing else.

But Maevaris is not quiet. She wears disdain like armor. She relies on her staff perhaps a tad too much, polished fingernails bending where she's gripping the leather wrappings of a weapon that's tasted blood magic time and again.

Vivienne sits. She doesn't turn around to offer Solas a seat. She takes pristine care to sweep aside the coattail of her robes, hooking it around her elbow so it does not wrinkle as she lowers herself into an chair. The stile was once plated with gold; nothing but flakes remain now, catching and reflecting light at odd angles, but she still manages to make it look regal. Like a true throne.

 _She_ is regal.

She doesn't speak to Solas nor does she spare a second glance to his entourage.

"You are here," she says, gaze gliding over Lavellan like a thousand inquisitive snakes, biting and stinging and ripping as if aspiring to burrow deep enough beneath her skin to uncover some terrible truth. "That could only mean that Dorian succeeded spectacularly in his fool's errand or failed just as formidably."

She marks a pause, look shifting inward.

"You left him," Ellana says.

She doesn't mean to sound accusing, but her voice is harsh. Her nose still hurts. There is still the hint of copper on the very tip of her tongue. Abelas still has one arm around her middle and she feels his fingers dig into her hipbone.

June is staring at a slashed painting at the other end of the hall. Someone took a dagger to it and yet it remains, an ever proud depiction of Tevinter of old. He hums. He pays none of them any heed.

Maevaris gives him an odd look, brow furrowed.

Abelas glares and Solas pinches the bridge of his nose. She can tell he wants to sit; he hates having to physically turn every time he wishes to face either of the women rather than merely dart his eyes between them.

A pang of guilt hits her which she quickly swallows.

"He took his Necromancers, his Mortalitasi, all those who enjoyed bone dust over living blood, and left to rummage through ancient burial grounds," Vivienne says.

"And you kept the Circle Mages," Ellana says.

"I did keep the Circle Mages," Vivienne agrees, "and here we are, not wading through corpses."

If they'd had the help of the rebuilt Circle, Minrathous would have had a chance. Anaris would still be in his prison and not gallivanting about, a shadow of a soul broken and fractured many times over, unable to remember its true nature and leeching off a foolish, stupid, pretty man and his memories and thoughts to reconstruct itself.

But it's only a perhaps.

And _perhaps_ have been making her so awfully bitter as of late.

She is childish to resent her for trying to preserve lives.

A new set of footsteps—Feynriel, flanked by his men, enters the great hall.

Solas offers him a nod. Then a smile.

Maevaris and Vivienne are quiet. They don't fret, but they aren't at ease either.

There's no telling who is guarding who. Or threatening, for that matter. Both parties just bare their teeth at each other, trying to judge who's got the sharpest pair.

"I thought you were heading to Nevarra," Maevaris says. She has none of the cheeky glee she proudly put on display so long ago when trading with Solas and paying dearly for it. She is still so very pale in the face. "They're eager to lick your boots there, I hear."

"In due time," Solas says. His hands are clasped at his back and from where she stands she can see his fingers drum a restless pattern against his wrist. "My forces shall remain stationed here until certain matters are resolved."

"No," says Vivienne. She leans back in her chair, hands folded in front of her. Not a muscle in her face twitches. "Our peace is frail—you shall break it by overstaying your welcome."

"It was not a request, Enchanter," Solas says.

He is so mild, but she sees the tension in his jaw, the pulsing vein in his neck.

"Of course," Vivienne begins, tone almost lazy if not for her effortless elegance which tints everything with grace, "you are the one who makes the sky burn and turns able warriors to stone and ash. _Of course_ , we know that. But you are but one man and can't be everywhere at once. Perhaps we'll go down, but know that we will slit many throats before you get to us. And you do so dislike useless bloodshed—not that you weren't its perpetuator, but we'll get to that moral dilemma another time."

For the first time, Maevaris smiles. "This truce is tentative," she says. "The deal was thus: we do not interfere and you do not intrude."

One hushed whisper. One timid voice.

Feynriel orders his men to arms with nothing but a single word.

Vivienne's mages and Maevaris' remaining Lucerni step around them as Feynriel's men point their spears, their swords, their own staves. He even has a Templar or two still in his rank; Dorian didn't slay them all during his escape. They are a coordinated formation of strong bodies, closing in on the opposing mages.

Humans. Elves. Half-breeds.

It's disorienting. The division should be clear; the ever-proud elves raised from mediocrity versus the rest of the world. But it isn't so, and it's confusing.

"You can't afford a civil war, Enchanter," Solas points out.

He turns on his heels. "I shall stay as long as I require and, as per our previous agreement, we will not disrupt the city's inner workings."

"This was ever just a formality," he adds.

He's being generous, is the unspoken assertion. He doesn't need to rub it in their faces for it to sting.

That's what finally makes Vivienne scowl.

"Oh, but something is wrong, my dear," she calls after him. "What have you lost?"

Solas does not respond.

The tension suddenly flees out of the room as all eyes zone in on June. He's set the horrid painting on fire and stands watching the canvass getting reduced to a crisp, the frame blackening around it.

"An offense to anyone, really," he concludes, nose scrunching in distaste.

Maevaris looks at him with murder. And then she's rising, pushing past the stiff bodies and their sharp weapons, to get to her.

"How is Dorian?" she murmurs.

And how is she supposed to answer that? Is there even still a Dorian? He answers to the name, but he speaks of ordeals another has lived through. He calls her friend still. He smiles at her.

She stayed behind to give him a head start.

"He is far away," is all she says.

Maevaris squeezes her hands and it's awkward because Abelas is still holding her, but the warmth of her rough palms is everything. She is so gentle.

She knows she can't give her more, but sometimes even silence is reassuring.

The fogged mirrors covering some of the walls send back an unimpressed image—she is tired and pale, but uninjured. Abelas' sullied sleeve is the only reminder that she bled at all.

"What happened?" he asks her quietly as Solas' entire entourage turns to follow him out.

In her peripheral, June grins and cocks his head. Nothing more than that.

He lips smile while his eyes do not.

"Nothing," she says, and feels a hot stone of dread in her stomach.

Abelas is not impressed. Nor is he convinced.

He hates her, she knows he does, but he keeps close. As watchful as a dog can be.

*

 It is an odd dream, but not because she doesn't recognize her surroundings.

She does know this place—this temple Morrigan's son visited in a feverish nightmare and subsequently pointed them toward. It's not how she remembers it. It isn't in ruins with dust clogging lungs with every breath and ancient scriptures scratched off the walls.

There are eluvians, all beautiful, all intricate. All so very different from Solas' in design, bathed in veilfire. Their craftsman was a grand-master, not a novice.

Blue, green, orange, purple. Gateways of swirling colors leading to places long-dead.

A hand lands on her shoulder, but she knows immediately it doesn't belong to Solas. The touch is too rough, lacking any of the gentleness he usually reserves for her.

She is spun around.

She thinks her collarbone whines a little as the hand slithers further down.

June is not nearly as deranged here as he appears in the real world. His hair is in braids and he wears obsidian plate inlaid with silverite. He surveys her with a lazy look.

"I am almost whole here," he says in way of explanation.

As if that clarifies anything.

She desperately wants to wake up.

Of course he'd be a Dreamer like Solas. Of course. Most ancient elves were to some degree.

"What do you want from me?" she asks.

Because he didn't rebuild the bridge to Minrathous out of the kindness of his heart. He didn't restore her arm just so she could braid his hair while he was otherwise occupied.

"Almost," he repeats, not listening to her.

"The mirrors were always mine. He stole them," he says, still lost in thought. "You took them back. Good girl."

A waif of a woman drifts by. She is not a spirit. This is a memory made incarnate. June captures her outstretched hand, but it is light and air, a wisp of one long gone. She quite literally slides through his fingers—droplets of silver light.

And then he rounds on her.

He hits her right across the face, knuckles cracking from the strength of the blow.

In the waking world, her nose would be a gushing fountain. Perhaps her jaw would be offset.

She staggers. Stumbles away from him, but he follows. He corners her and gets a solid grip on her throat. Her pulse point puts up a frantic struggle against his thumb as it aspires to crush it.

"You pathetic thing," he says.

And it's his calm that's perhaps the most frightening of all.

She claws at his wrist but he doesn't as much as flinch.

"How did a pathetic thing like you break me—break _her_." He is gasping now, struggling to get the words out in his rage.

He drags her like one might a disobedient dog, by the collar and without mercy. It's not the temple she remembers, but it's the one from his past. He knows these halls, owns them.

She sees the twin orbs. June's and Sylaise's, differing only in size. Magnificent things on pedestals of crystal.

There was barely any magic left in them when they found them. A powerful discharge shattered both, and buried the temple in the ensuing chaos.

But in the Fade, the memories of them will always persist.

Strands of magic link them together. It's a beautiful dance; silver threads twine with golden ones and they embrace, cajole, entice.

Piece by piece, the temple withers. First the colors flee and then chunks of the foundation. It's like standing in the eye of the storm while the painting is being desecrated around her.

First one orb shatters and its consort mourns its loss. It decays and crumbles until it is nothing but dust, and the last of the magic is snuffed out.

It didn't happen like this, of course, but there is something profoundly unsettling about the display.

There is a distant wail heralding loss cutting through the stillness. It's not so much heard as felt.

The temple disintegrates around them and June holds her captive, forcing her to watch, through all of it.

He is shaking her now, and she doesn't quite realize it's happening until he slams her against an eluvian. She is surprised the glass does not crack from the impact.

"She was the other half of me," he says—gasps. His breath hitches in his throat. He is wild. "She faded and I had to forage for pieces of anything—of anyone—"

He actually runs out of breath then and lets go of her. He rakes both of his hands through his hair, adding just the right amount of desperation and wideness to his facade to remind her that he's still the half-mad man who couldn't recall how to put out a simple fire spell. The one who nearly collapsed and required Abelas' aid to remain upright.

"Who did you take?" she whispers, because she understands now. Anaris' words make sense.

A madman with a voice that is not his own inside his head.

"Ghilan'nain," he hisses. "It is not easy to break an Evanuris, da'len. And she fought. Valiantly. She always had a fierce bite."

They couldn't get to Ghilan'nain's orb in time. Solas brought down the Veil before they had the chance, but she remembers its design.

June's medallion swings and she feels sick.

Its two halves do not belong together; their coexistance a forced misfortune. June's orb and Ghilan'nain's forged into something abominable.

Ghilan'nain created life.

June is forced to drain it to fuel his creations.

It's sickening.

"She is very loud," June whispers. "Bone by bone. Memory by memory. Thought by thought. She is nothing, but she is still here."

He turns and looks as though he's already forgotten his previous confession. "But there is a piece of her somewhere still. Is she inside you? I can't tell."

She can't even tell who he's talking about anymore. He's rambling. He's past being coherent.

He tries pulling something—someone—anything out of her. The threads of magic that so lovingly caressed those pouring from Sylaise's orb crawl into her. They shred and rip and slash. There is no blood, but there might as well be for the pain is blinding.

She thinks she screams.

June tilts his head. "I can't find her," he mutters. "I don't know—perhaps later—I don't know."

He is back to not making sense.

For a second he pins her with a blank glare, but soon is shaking his head, willing rationality—if only a sliver, if only he has that much left to spare—to return.

"One more thing," he says.

And once more he drags her up by the collar. He forces her in front of an eluvian, a towering presence at her back.

For a heartbeat, he turns disturbingly tender. He nuzzles her hair with his cheek and inhales the scent of her. Then, the tiniest of pecks is pressed to the crown of her head.

So ephemeral. So brief. As if it was never there at all.

When his fingers graze her chin, her skin ignites. A million little flames scorch their way up a familiar path that should no longer exist.

It's the Fade, but the return of her vallaslin feels too real.

The ink splitting her lips is especially feisty. It feels like a brand, like a hot iron, not burning through flesh but merely resting there.

The ink flows out of her skin; curlicues and whorls, like threads on an invisible needle, sew her mouth shut.

Her stomach lurches.

"You will remain quiet, of course," June says, stroking her hair.

"But now you must wake up," he says.

He crashes her forehead against the eluvian and shards of broken glass shred the skin of her face into colorful, bloody ribbons.

And oh does she wake.

*

She somehow makes it to the mirror in her room. Her legs threaten to fold beneath her. Her knees shake.

Her face is as bare as the day Solas knelt beside her in Crestwood and took the markings—and the truth—away.

She heaves a sigh, but feels her heart seize nevertheless.

There is a butter knife on her nightstand from a late breakfast and a frenzied thought crosses her mind. She could chop off this arm right now. Dull the silver until it is useless and then find a proper dagger. It wouldn't even hurt—she wouldn't even bleed.

Her hand hovers inches above it before she snaps out of it.

Somehow, she makes it out of her room.

Somehow, Solas isn't asleep despite the late hour.

His eyes are red-rimmed, the damaged one more so than the healthy, and he is tired but still hunched over a map of Tevinter.

He frowns, but then his features soften.

"Sleep with me," she says.

He goes back to frowning.

"Why?" he asks, voice hoarse. His fingers spasm.

She makes a vague gesture toward an armchair behind his desk. "Just sleep with me," she whispers.

Please, please, please, she wants to say. And there are so many words she wants to add, but nothing comes out. Every time she thinks of June her throat constricts. Her minds fogs. She forgets how to speak.

A cold sweat trickles down her spine.

She goes to curl into his armchair, but he shakes his head and steers her toward his bed.

She is grateful when he doesn't settle in beside her and claims the armchair instead. It mustn't be comfortable for him; he shifts, trying to find a relatively satisfying placement for his long legs.

He stares at her for too long and she, in turn, stares at the ceiling.

"Ellana," he whispers.

Concern seeps into his tone and she can't allow it to blossom into worry. Because then he will push, he will want to know, and she can't—she can't do anything—nothing.

Her hands grip the covers until she feels her nails cut through the fabric.

"Sleep with me," she says for the third time.

And he finally relents.

The Fade is soft when he is there. There are aravels and an unfamiliar forest. He shapes it in the way he thinks she might enjoy it.

There are no eluvians.

No glass to cut her.

Solas sits beside her. He looks very confused and says nothing as he observes her trailing her hands through the plush grass.

"Would you like to play chess?" he asks hesitantly.

She nods.

Between them a chessboard appears, every pierce carved with precision and care, rough at the edges but made with affection—Blackwall's work. She remembers that much.

Solas lets her win.


	48. Feed Me Lies

She is afraid of sleeping.

Such a trivial thing. She used to close her eyes and wander about familiar aravels that had somehow found their way past Skyhold's thick walls and steep entrances. A juxtaposition of sights that do not belong together, but always so beloved.

Now there are mirrors and she can't banish them.

Eluvian rises after eluvian; roots of obsidian and wood sprout from a soil of solid smoke, twisting, curling, furling into frames each taller than the last. And it's innocent at first, only broken phantoms with shattered surfaces, until each explodes into blinding light.

She shields her face, but it burns behind the thin flesh of her eyelids.

She is so tired of mirrors. She leans against the least imposing of frames with her free hand, feeling tremors race up to her shoulder. The wood sort of hums with a different kind of energy. It is welcoming. It is not unkind.

It pulls threads and slivers out of her new arm; magic comes from within, a strength borne of willpower, intangible and odd, but these strands are brilliant.

A cascade of brilliant colors mends the broken surfaces. Shards fuse together and light fills the gaps in between.

The mirror stands restored, the same glowing green the Anchor once radiated.

 _I can rebuild almost anything_. June's words ring hollow in her ears. They're a memory but they're also an echo, and she wishes there was a way to smother them for good.

She frowns. She clutches the new arm to her chest in a fit of irrationality—she doesn't want it near her heart, but also refuses to allow it close to anything else.

There are steps. Not too heavy. Not too light. The intruder could have pranced out of the stillness, but allows her a few seconds to gain alertness.

June bows his head at her in greeting.

Behind his careful mask of insouciance, pride bubbles like feverish, infected blood.

She could rise on her tiptoes and trace the pattern with her finger before he is stone once more.

"Very good," he praises, nodding once.

Then he is in front of her, capturing her wrist and pulling her into him. It's a bit like dragging a ram to slaughter because she digs her heels into the ground, refusing to come. But the bones in her wrist whine and he is already so close. It's no fight at all. He has her against him in the span of two exhales.

"Where is she?" he asks.

He is being too calm. Too sweet. Too _tender_. His free hand reaches up to stroke her cheek; thumb hooks beneath her jaw as he guides her face upward.

She wants to claw his eyes out like she did with Solas. But with all the intent this time. All the rage.

Her fingers curls around his wrist, squeezing, so they're both locked in place. He isn't holding her, not truly; the game is played on both ends.

At least that's what she tells herself. It's easier this way.

"Get out," she says.

She considers shoving him, but it's like the entirety of the Fade has taken up arms behind him. She fears the swirling darkness at his back, hungry jaws ready to snap.

"Where is she?" he repeats, and this time something in his voice cracks.

She knows the taste of desperation all too well.

"You should leave me alone," she says in way of warning. She doesn't really believe he will listen.

"You owe me," June says. "You wore my markings."

"You took. You gave. None of us knew we were proud of a farce—none of this has any weight."

His smile is an ugly thing. "You think you are untouchable," he murmurs, "because the traitor loves you. But here is the cold truth, little child: Fen'Harel wants you but me, oh me, he needs. Need triumphs over want."

It is the truth. And it really is quite cold.

This time, June shakes her and he isn't gentle.

"You broke her," he hisses. "To pieces, to slices, to chunks. Your lover had agents watching over him—but we withered in sleep. And you broke the only thing sustaining her."

It dawns on her finally that he is talking of Sylaise. Their twin orbs suffered the same fate as his, but where June managed to piece himself back together by ripping morsels out of Ghilan'nain, Sylaise must have faded.

And now he is a little mad for it.

"You were there," he says—pants in her face. His breathing is so ragged that his words are puffs of air, wild sounds differing in pitch. "She must have sought refuge nearby."

"You're completely deranged," she whispers, pushing back at him.

"Nearby," he murmurs, gaze wandering, shifting, going everywhere rather settling on her.

He sees her as a vessel.

He has a hand in her hair before she can protest and her scalp would be bloody were she awake. He yanks so forcefully—chunks of hair come out, they must be. She feels a numbness where he coils undone tresses about his fingers. He has to curb his back to reach her; his hair is a thick, heavy curtain around them.

His breath is warm and crashes against her face. Too warm. Too hot. The tip of her nose feels moist.

He smells of spearmint.

It's the last coherent thought her mind is able to form before he slants his mouth over hers. It isn't a spell this time, he isn't vying for a language years have prevented him from learning.

He is kissing her.

He is _trying_ to kiss her.

His teeth bloody her lips trying to part them; there is copper on her tongue and also on his. He breathes and spearmint is laced with blood, unsettling her stomach. His grip is tight but it is also desperate. His free hand roams. Over her ribs and hips, down her back and up, up, up her neck where the fine hairs stand up from the sheer horror of it.

He settles a palm over her heart.

She counts his heartbeats—seven and no more—until they're matched with his breathing.

Magic sizzles beneath his palm and it's like he's trying to pry something out of her very heart.

He rests his forehead against hers, mutterings old words. She feels his frown form against her skin.

Something rebels within her. It's not quite pain, but it is loud. It roars in her ears and pours into her blood. Until her heart is pumping, pumping, pumping, spreading it to every inch of her body. A layer of frost against the scorch of his skin.

It's the little remainder of Faith. It mourns Wynne still, but it's no longer quiet. It lunges to her defense.

Whatever he's trying to find—whatever he thought he might have found—flees. He can't give chase, can't grasp at the fleeing pieces.

"Where is she," he asks again, but it is no longer a question. He bleeds puzzlement.

He tries extracting it out of her once more but Faith interferes.

This small, insubstantial spirit is somehow a match against a being once mistaken for a god. It holds its end, countering June's probing and searching, but it is growing weaker. It will shatter—it's not whole as it is.

His mouth is still so close. He is still muttering incantation between stolen, forced kisses.

This time, she's the one to anchor him in and he is surprised. She sinks her teeth into his lower lip and tastes more blood.

Faith retreats, licking its wounds.

June curses. He stumbles. He goes to strike her but his hand freezes midair, giving hers time to rise in a  block.

He looks terrified.

If Sylaise is somehow still here, he doesn't want to hurt her.

"Come here," he says. His voice is hoarse, flickering between registers. As if it costs him everything to try and sound kind.

He isn't kind. She knows it. He's only more than half-mad. That is no ground for kindness to bloom upon.

He beckons her to him, long fingers furling and unfurling in a gesture meant to appeal.

She shakes her head, stepping back. With her sleeve, she wipes the blood away from her mouth.

"I don't have what you seek," she says. It seems silly now to try and use logic, but she doubts he'll listen to mindless yelling.

"You can repair my mirrors," June says.

"In the Fade," she points out. "And what does it matter?"

"Not only in the Fade," he says. "It matters more than you understand."

She wakes after walking away from his outstretched hand.

*

Solas will move out of Qarinus soon. He hardly sleeps thinking of Dorian—Anaris now, she supposes.

He strokes the back of her hand when she curls in his armchair and she watches his brows knit together in worry.

She hasn't forgiven him. She can't. She thinks she never will.

But with him the Fade is kind.

He's the only one who gives her comfort as of late.

"Ellana," he says, "you've lost flesh."

She says nothing. There are two blankets around her and she wishes for a third. He insisted she take the bed, but that would lead to a mistake. So she'll remain here throughout the night and in the morning her limbs will be sore and heavy.

"Talk to me," Solas entreats.

He is soft now. He is not the person who talked so ruthlessly to Vivienne and poisoned Maevaris, but then again that was always their dance.

Almost.

She feels his hand on her knee and looks down to stare at his fingers. So long, so talented, so thin. They've caressed her a thousand times, those fingers.

She wants to. Desperately so.

But quills broke when she tried finding loopholes through writing, and blood rose at the back of her throat when she attempted words.

She can't tell him and she shakes, she wants to cry, she wants to scream.

"No," she says.

And he sighs.

They will move out of Qarinus soon enough. If June is right, perhaps the next eluvian will respond to her as well.

Perhaps there is one close to Orzammar.

**Author's Note:**

> Teehee. Here's my useless [tumblr.](http://emmg.tumblr.com/) <3


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